Saturday, September 22, 2007


I hate walking to work. I just don’t trust my car. Seriously, I don’t trust the thing. It’s out to get me. If it’s not switching radio stations on me, it’s pulling itself into oncoming traffic. I don’t need that shit.

And that Frederick Douglass-looking guy waiting for the bus on Deerdorfe? He’s a fucking spy. I know it. He plays that act like he’s crazy, talking to himself. I know the truth. He’s telling them where I’m going, every step documented somewhere. They’re keeping tabs on me. My days are numbered.

When the girl behind the counter at Cup-A-Joe’s asks me if I want whipped cream on my Americano, it’s code. She’s testing me. She knows all I want is a plain ol’ Americano. It’s the same thing I order every day! It’s just hot water and espresso! Why would I want whipped cream on it? Are you insane? Oh, I get it. You’re just doing your job.

And why is there a Cup-A-Joe’s on every corner? Do I need that many Americanos on the way to work? I only go to every single one because they want me to. It’s expected of me, so I do it. The one day when I don’t follow the patterns, I’m dead.

I am the last lemming left. I follow no one and no one follows me.



Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home