“Bah!” I say, pulling my filthy little smoke-stained hoodie tighter around my shoulders. I need a sandwich. Where are my pants? I shuffle past the darkened window slowly and pause in front of the mirror to remind myself that I am a person.
Even on Father’s Day, when the cultural pressure to emote is at its highest, there are other ways you can express your gratitude.
Remember, knowledge is shareable—just like the diseases that will kill us all.
I wanted to relish its death, take delight in the thought that its last hours on earth, before it was obliterated in the back of an enormous, smelly truck, had been spent in the cold, monotonous rain.
I didn’t want this cute, friendly young salesgirl to know, but I couldn’t wear Abercrombie to bed and still respect myself in the morning.
I think about how fragile human dignity is, how easily it can slip away, and I grow cautious. I must be careful not to let myself drown in these greasy, delicious waters.
In a sense, I like waiting, or I’ve tried to learn to like it anyway. I’ve become resigned to the fact that it’s just a symptom of how people are: They are late and I am waiting, if not for them then for something else, something I’m not sure of, so what’s the difference anyway.