15 years on this world and I still can't cook more than pop tarts.
Written By: Paige
December 31, 2014
On stage a stout man housing a garden of cold sores tells the world how it should be. He shouts to a fervent crowd in trim suits and shapely dresses, the herd cawing their agreement. Dull pheasants who cackle to hide their ignorance. Each one believing they support something bigger, that their being here entitles a sense of self righteousness. The man howls until his face resembles a pruned tomato. The spectators clap frantically, a brood of chickens believing themselves hawks. In the opposite room a coy group sip cocktails worth more than they can afford. They pick at the latest scandal, sharing I heards and she saids with a staggering indifference to the meaning of privacy. They fight over the juicy details like lions in the grassland, over the remains of an unfortunate antelope, each with sham sympathy and even more well hidden elation. Her poor parents! A women with a Cheshire smile wearing too much crimson lipstick runs a fraudulent charity. The man beside her is a philanderer. Their future son becomes a politician and official sex offender. Right and left are indolent, sanctimonious animals, drunk on narcissism. I wonder, Where have all the humans gone?
In a bit of a nihilistic mood.