Anyway, I’m looking across the room from under my ten dollar straw hat and I see the source of the odor: a potato chip bag with a hole through the bottom. I grab my hat and hoot at the waiter to get that sorry ass bag out of my sight, and he obliges immediately. It’s not typical of me to shake a man’s hand after such a menial task, but I really think he did a bang up job on that litter.

Chronicles of You – #5

You ate a burrito with my name on it in magic marker just to spite me? That’s really using your noggin. For all we know, you could have cancerous cells growing in your esophagus as we speak, burrowing themselves into the healthy tissue and setting up a lengthy picnic that could possibly migrate to the stomach as the week goes on. I know you assumed that I wasn’t going to eat it. That’s really quite marvelous.

The Back Page Thought Progression

Ramble ramble ramble, see if I care an iota. Look at my eyelid. No twitches at all. You’re not getting to me a bit. It’s tragic the way you feel you have to save face and keep up with the charade, and I admire you for trying–and look, you just keep on doing it as though you enjoy it as much as I hate it. I’m still not going to give you the satisfaction of knowing you’ve nagged me half to death; I’m just going to nod and smirk, knowing that I won this battle.