Red dress, blue dress
Make a choice, you said. An independent choice. The red dress or the blue dress. I prefer the blue, that’s what I’ll choose. Blue to me says happy, that’s all I hope to be. Red, instead, to suffer, in all its forms what I fear most. Wait, blue middles contra red. Although could I be blamed for the host upstaged? Best to choose blue, praised as the guest who melts like an ice cube into the punchbowl of invitees. Yet, dress for success. Blue could be construed as the also-ran I think I am. And then how ignorant of me, I must consider coordination with your tie. More than one choice there is for sure, a tangled wig of reticulated hairs no comb can tease without tears. Biased ruminations I cannot yet eschew. Red dress or blue dress, mannequin I am who, amidst mind’s dance card, giggles at the quickstep that illudes independent choice in an interdependent world.