107

I put on golden sandals and a burgundy fluffy robe
and decided to pretend to be one of the idle rich.

I teetered around the drafty old house with a martini in one hand
and a cigarette in the other

There was nothing underneath my robe.

I sloshed and slathered and screamed and cried and had multiple fits regarding my sense of entitlement.

I was told my expectations were much too high.

I re-thought my position and considered myself quite lucky after all.

I still cried, but when it was time to stop I put away my pen
and paper and got up and made a baloney sandwich.

This entry was published on 12.30.13 at 1:33 pm. It’s filed under automatic writing, fiction, short fiction and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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