The mid-August Central Valley heat beat down on my empty windshield and all I could do was look ahead at the muddled pavement that directed my journey.
When I am cut, I make people cry; the layers of my life build upon each other like an unfortunate romantic novel being read in the summer. All around me I am buried between others who are exactly the same but I feel so alone and so different.
“Welcome to the real word,” bluntly repeated by my riding partner. The words rang in my ears
This could be the last day that I am able to sit with my vegetable brethren from here on out.
Looking at that open door all I can do is shuffle in discomfort. With movement I see three or four of my friends bound listlessly from the sedentary pile. They scream with glee.
I don’t think my escape will be quite as gratifying
-I Found this in an old notebook, thought it was interesting
picture credit (http://www.hungryagain.net)