Plathological

Idiot's Route Leads to Sunstroke

I walk by him every day, where tourist town meets uphill. Today, eyes to the ground until I was passing his side, I imagined myself being married to the guy: the guy who tells us all to come to Julia’s place. Though he totally disgusts me, he’d be an easy marriage. He’d come home with his chef’s hat sticking up in the air, his white apron, bunched and ruffling at his knees, as if he owned the place. We’d live in a hovel. The sort of hovel that people like us aren’t supposed to afford anymore. You know: the rebel sell, things and places, circumstances that have been usurped by people, entire segments of the population that wouldn’t have these sort of detached fantasies—maybe some of them have even taken his advice, had steak, mushrooms, drinks where he told them to. I'll have to tell him first, one day, that I'll never actually come to Julia's Place.

Today I learned that employers are terrified of colour, literal colour. Though the word terrify wasn't actual used, by my make-shift and quite momentary bread and butter coach, at least. What escaped my mouth was quite a different story. I'm sure she, loose long hair and political science degree in the making et al., expected me to come at something with a knife, hidden weapon.