Like a stuck pig


I drive to work in the smog, windows down. There is an accident on the freeway. I listen to “Let Down” and “Karma Police.” I feel stuck. I feel connections disappearing. I never go out. I think about just taking the exit to Las Vegas and driving for a while.

I read an article about host bars in South Korea in which women pay men for companionship (and perhaps more).

I sit at lunch with a coworker in the break room. I eat macaroni salad with Ritz crackers.

I pore over OK Computer liner notes trying to pull out all the meaning:

  • I live in a town where you can’t smell a thing.
  • We hope your rules and wisdom choke you.
  • A heart that’s full up like a landfill.

I am “fitter, happier, more productive…A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics.”


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