Side Chick / Side of Fries
They Went Home
They went home and told their wives,
that never once in all their lives,
had they known a girl like me,
But… They went home.
They said my house was licking clean,
no word I spoke was ever mean,
I had an air of mystery,
But… They went home.
My praises were on all men’s lips,
they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
they’d spend one night, or two or three.
Waiting games are for girls who have been promised love. Baiting games are for girls who mistook lust for love. Tonight I am a side chick with a side of fries. In painful clarity, I dip my fry into a mountain of ketchup and let it swim, submerge into a sea of red. I heard there are fish in the sea; a girlfriend—a friend of friend—a cousin of a coworker—read a book about love and called it a precarious thing. Sometimes I think I’m a precarious thing, and love and I are just two repelling poles.
Employee of the Month
I have fallen victim to society’s obsession with hierarchies. It’s the vanity in my birth chart, this obsession with purpose and legacy, a fascination with greatness. It’s ironic because being enough is never enough, the paradox of perfection. How can you be enough if nothing is enough? How can you be perfect if imperfect is the closest you’ll ever get? Why does the top of the pyramid look so good from down here? Tell me the hard truths of your royal reign and I will stop wanting to be a princess. Not so, wanting is a persistent madness. I throw myself a pity party and succumb to my existential dread. Mediocrity is an ugly thing to hold on to especially when it’s taped to your hands.
You are the one, Neo.
How much water in the glass is enough to be half-full? How much is enough to be half-empty?
Do I need purpose to be purposeful? Sometimes I feel like I’m the supporting character in my own life. Sometimes the birds are main characters, other days its the park, or the sky, or my friends. More and more I think my life is less about me and more about life itself. Aren’t all stories about life and less so about their characters? Perhaps this is just the pessimism that comes with a side of fries.