Blythe is fucking hilarious. And a poet. Her book Something Smells Like Pee is out now and available for you to peruse and contemplate and laugh with. And also marvel at her drawings. Girl is multi-talented.
The book is hella good, really. It's a cross between Shel Silverstein, Raold Dahl, and that person you want to sit next to at any and all meetings and functions, because you know she is going to say something spectacularly funny under her breath, and you need to be there to hear that shit.
Her poem Matt Damon brilliantly encapsulates not only the yearning, determination, and resignation found in unrequited love, but also eerily mirrors the many months I spent trying to get Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers to call me. I think we may be twins. [Me and Blythe. Not me and Flea. Or me and Matt Damon. Can't you just follow the pronouns, people? Jesus.]
The first poem in the book, Hair in My Ass Crack, is a not-so-subtle reminder that we are all human, that we all struggle in this world, and that things are sometimes just fucking disgusting.
The genius of the poem Forks is so sublime that you can't help but think, IS SHE IN MY HOUSE? HOW DOES SHE KNOW UTENSILS ARE MISSING? Although for us, it's spoons. Maybe they ran away with Blythe's forks? I DON'T KNOW! But the poem helps me deal with the uncertainty that is the modern world. And for that, I thank her.
Anyway, I'm giving away a copy of the book to a lucky reader. Just put your name in the comments, or make a comment, or write a poem. Just comment. And I'll pick someone randomly and they'll get the book because I am a giver, a giver of books by an author who is smart and funny and talented and smells nice, quite unlike pee.