Blame Monday.

Blame the ten cups of chocolate milk I just drank. Blame the half glass of wine that won't settle. Blame the Samurai Sam's dad brought home for dinner. Blame digestion.

Blame the promise ring I fashioned so that I'll never forget. Blame the red marks on my ring hand ring finger from squeezing my palm so that I remember.

Blame the dirt that will never was off no matter how hard I scrub. Blame the "birthmark" that has surfaced on my side in recent months which won't go away.

Blame the warmer weather for my drying skin.

Blame the new cut I seem to have acquired on the underside of my arm. Blame the cut that left its scar on the wrist. Blame my weak wrists.

Blame the hours upon hours of the musical stylings of Poe, Fiona Apple, Ani DiFranco, and the like. Blame the need to be beaten. Blame Silverchair's "Abuse Me": "abuse me more, I like it... keep on talking 'cause it's true..."

Blame oxygen for only existing in pairs.

Blame the two pages of bullshit I had to write to convince the bishop to allow me to be confirmed into a religion I don't plan to be exclusive to. Blame the sketchbook I brought to Confirmation class which holds most of my homoerotica. Blame L'Impiccato.

Blame Henna.

Blame Ms. Miller for killing everyone with her two-week research paper. Blame my need to turn this three page research paper into my college thesis. Blame Hesse for being so psychoanalytical.

Blame Hershey's for selling legal addictives.

Blame my imagination who seems to have died some time ago.

Blame my attraction to a certain boy in my confirmation class. Blame the absence of adoration in that attraction; I could care less of giving and taking emotional support, I want him in a corner now.

Blame GQ. Blame Brad Pitt. Blame all the pretty gay boys in Queer As Folk. Blame Abercrombie and Fitch. Blame Hot Topic. Blame Australia.

Blame Fortuna for her impeccable timing.

But don't blame me because I can't turn a blind eye.