I went to a poetry night last night. Not one of the ones with old people, mind you, but one of the ones with crazy kids and hippies. It was called Cottonmouth. You would think that this sort of thing would bring out the attentive and critical poetry fan in me but it just doesn’t. For some reason I can watch a band, pay strict attention and make haughty remarks about how the drums are too busy or the lyrics are boring, but when it comes to poetry I spend most of the time looking at girls and not listening to a word anyone is saying up on the stage. Then, at the end, I tell everyone that the badly written, melodramatic goth poem about suicide and vampires was my favourite.

Next time I will register for open mic poetry and spend the whole night rehearsing my poems and listing the reasons why I’m so much better than everyone else.