I stand in line at a grocery store, sharing the same blank stare as the fat woman in the moomoo, the skinny biker with more tattoos than teeth, and worst of all, the Young Urban Professional in the dark suit.

None of us can read each other’s thoughts. If they knew what swirls around in the dark abyss of my mind, they would've called the asylum already.

I don't see people anymore. All I see are meat puppets, dangling on the strings of conformity.

Of 'Normalcy'...

Of 'Morality'...

Of 'Sanity'...

Throw another tub of ice cream on that register belt, you fat bitch, it might last you until supper. Why don't you buy a garden trowel to eat that with?

She looks at me and smiles.
...

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