“What’s this meeting about?” he asks, as if I know or care.
It’s winter, and the chill is uncomfortable for us Californians. Another excuse to bitch about something. Another reason to dig up the passport, just in case you feel like joining the pulp and guilt that treads on the streets of open armed countries. I’m not biased; I’m just another invisible refugee. A liar and a hard worker.
I contributed to your fast-food culture and served up heaps of fries and insults.
When we’re young, we hurt and nothing makes much sense besides the constant need for love, and the hunger for food and girls and boys. For snacks between kisses. All we want is to make sense to someone. To have someone look at us and see the stars in our spit and taste the world in our orgasms.
But the supposed meeting.
Buncha middle-aged, white wonder bread Ken-type men trying to teach us, the underprivileged dark morons some, etiquette.
DON’T just throw your napkin on your lap, place it there neatly.
DON’T chew loudly cause enjoying yourself is out of the question.
DON’T speak your mind.
DON’T wear messy clothes and always look me in the eye. Your hate fuels me.
DON’T be the first to take a pastry, you greedy piece of shit.
But I am.
I always bite every donut after every meeting.
I like being the fat one.
The greedy loud bitch.
I like hearing people talk about me behind their glass cages.
I want to prove them wrong.
That I’m different, cause my passion can’t be wrong.
That I love like a killer.
That I cry like a burning infant.
That I hate like the comet that made life extinct.
I’m no joke.
“The meetings about me,” I said.
“We just gonna bask in your greatness? Take you in and invade you?”
‘Ya.” I said
“Cool.” He said.
I like this guy.
He gets it.