I recently had to be--
I had anesthesia and got knocked out,
but it was after I had written this poem.
And I came to, and I had also just seen Inception.
[LAUGHTER]
And I was convinced I was in the movie Inception.
And I said, "This is really trippy."
And then I remembered this poem.
And I started waving my hand in front of my face.
It was highly entertaining.
Don't expect me to make eye contact when you comment
on the roundness of my cheeks.
I have low self-esteem, or so I was
told after the incident when the children informed me
I look like a sad hippopotamus.
[LAUGHTER]
I cried hippo tears, playing into their plan.
"They did this to me," I sobbed, into the doctor's shoulder.
"Don't touch," the doctor whispered,
backing up toward the wall.
Then said, "Keep your chin up, kiddo."
If I weren't shy, I'd have said, "We are around the same age,
doc-o."
[LAUGHTER]
But instead, I continue to cry.
This was my life.
The children had fangs and my doctor told me cliches.
And no one wanted to touch me.
Lately the children taunt me, "Eat, eat, hippo face."
I should throw a rock, yell back,
"Be more creative you lot of cretins."
[LAUGHS]
But I hate to be offensive.
Today, my crush threw an empty cup my way,
mistaking me for a dumpster.
Not so surprising, I suppose.
And I've seen it in my dreams, the children wielding a load
of pumpkins in my direction.
"My teeth, my teeth," I yell, as the hippo food flies.
"We love it when you squeal," they say, clapping.
Those little pinkies of Satan, children.
[LAUGHTER]
But they notice you.
They know you exist, as invisible woman,
says my doctor, says my crying mother.
But what good is that, my hand full of teeth.
Are there any children?
[LAUGHTER]