No Museum Piece

Nothing brings me more joy than the darkest memes on the internet. The Office is the best Netflix show of all time, period. I cut avocadoes with a fork because that’s what I’m eating it with, and a knife would just dirty another dish.

I’m not sure how 3-D printers work, and at this point I’m too afraid to ask. My anxiety makes me forget what basic words mean: does ‘here’ exist? Or am I just spelling it wrong? I’ll never know; it’s just another existential crisis I have with burned toast.

I go to bookstores to calm down. My anger rises hot, and I don’t do confrontation. I’m terrified that Freud might have been right with everything he said. At one point I got so burned out at my office job that I lay down near some train tracks and hoped someone would come get me, and when someone did, I just shook my head. Sometimes I think: I didn’t ask for this. Life is a long chain of events, and my sister told me I just let it happen to me.

In my writing, I try to find my way home. I want to feel enveloped by snow. My poetry doesn’t always rhyme. And don’t ask me about my opinion on politics. I saw some Bernie memes and laughed. That’s about all I can contribute to that.

When asked about myself, I might say I work in an office, write on the side. I have a dog that I went through hell to train. I dabble in yoga and reading but my head’s in the clouds; a simple truth about me might be that I’m waiting this out. I’m buying plane tickets home. This is where it begins, and ends.