Arachnid fingers picking at my heart like the peach pit torn from its soft, sweet home and swiftly discarded. Stuck to the side of a garbage bag, perhaps one day it will take root in some far off landfill and grow into a clumsy metaphor for beauty amid heaps of ****.
That girl with the cotton candy colored hair at the corner of Fourth and Chestnut struggles with four garment bags. Where the **** is she going with four garment bags? I see her every day, sweating, shifting her burdens from arm to shoulder, then back to arm. Except when Iām running late; quarter past whenever.
At least tomorrow is Friday when we can all gag on our toothbrushes. The privilege of a clean mouth should come with some discomfort.
But **** girl, for real. Find a steamer trunk. The kind with little wheels and a telescoping handle? You don't have to be anyone's Sisyphus.