I slouch like an old man. Then tense like a toddler taking a turd. I pack my purse, toss my trash and run out of the cafe where everyone knows I need to cough. Everyone knows I was just being polite, not coughing. I swing open the glass door, turn toward the pharmacy and decide on a pit-spit-stop. Turning down a small alley, I find privacy and behind a brick wall, I spit like a tobacco chewing dugout couch. I walk away, disgusted with my bodily fluid functions. After I buy tissues, cough syrup and cough drops, I walk home and imagine dying while everyone else is at work.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Writing Now
Writing is one way to connect with Spirit. Therefore, for me, it has become less of a production and more of a messy correspondence.
-
“Can you put all the cold stuff together? Double bag please, they ALWAYS break....and bread on top.” I agree with their requests like ...
-
The word loses its meaning once repeated across this page a s every job I have ever had has lost its meaning once repea...
-
To celebrate my 41st birthday, I attend a silent retreat. I go alone to be alone. It is a time for being with being. It is a time for deep ...
No comments:
Post a Comment