On one of my ex’es birthdays many years ago, I had spent the week earlier working on an artistic rendition of a poem by one of her favorite poets, sadly scrawled on the largest canvas I could think of, the drywall in the garage. I added a simple happy line of my own at the end. When I took off her blindfold to reveal the surprise, she was horrified that I had the arrogance to pervert such perfection. Soon after, as her disgust grew, I painted it back over in white and shame.
I can remember neither the poem nor the poet.
Update: It turns out there is precedent, thanks to a belated unearthing of yet another Vonnegut gem. However, I cannot hold KV directly responsible for the transgression, as he always breaks the fourth wall via a safety net named Kilgore Trout, or in this case, his son or some such, who writes:
If only I had the balls to own it like Kurt…
That’s horrible in so many ways…
I’ve been in love a thousand times, it was recipricated once.
We had a good laugh together for a few many years but then the girl got bored and left me in tears.
I’m not quite sure why and that’s probably why.
I was book smart she was street smart I thought we were a pair.
She said the first 8 years were the best of her life but the last 8 were the worst.
I guess I’m just cursed.