Today I stepped in a big, juicy wad of gum, sitting in the blazing hot sun on the sidewalk where I picked up a City Paper to use as padding for a package I was about to send. "Bleeping Bleep!" I yelled, angry, fuming for the next thirty minutes as I could feel my shoe stick ever-so-slightly to the sidewalk below. In line at the post-office I could faintly smell sweat mingled with peppermint chewing gum. "Bleep!"
When I stepped into the office my co-worker told me, "Farrah Fawcett is dead." Heartbroken, I mused, "I guess stepping in gum isn't so bad."
Later, at my other job, my friend was looking at a blog that said Michael Jackson was dead. No Way! I said, but sure enough he's gone too. Walking home I saw a candlelit vigil in Rittenhouse Park, and I was wondering if it was for Farrah, Neda, or Michael Jackson.
I still have that gum stuck to my shoe.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment