Born Lucky
by Meg Worden
That asshole thinks he's better than me, that I don't understand his fancy talk. He doesn't know shit about what I understand. I hate this job.
There's nothing wrong with me. I work hard, I scramble around here like a famished ant on a lump of sugar. Barely get enough sleep.
You'd think Jesus was his freaking wife the way he carries on about Christmas.
Do this, Do that, go get me a goddamn Pepsi out of the refrigerator like I'm some kind of kindergartner instead of a meat-eating man.
It's just wrong to treat people like that.
He's gonna find he wasn't born lucky after all, his propaganda has got up on the wrong side of the bed and sidled onto the couch.
He'll be scrambling to put out that fire all night, stupid pink nose all caked up with that white shit, hard like clay in his snot.
I am not silent. I am not static.
I am listening to things no one else can even hear.
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Author's Note
This came from a free write....apparently I have a plethora of emotionally disturbed men roiling around in my psyche. Come in. Join us.
Other stories by Meg Worden
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"You'd think Jesus was his freaking wife the way he carries on about Christmas." - wow
the second to last paragraph needs a bit of clarification for me, who the "you" is..?
I wonder if that paragraph could come in earlier, maybe between "meat-eating man" and "It's just wrong"...
"I am listening to things no one else can even hear." - no matter what else, if this were my own story I would end it on this killer sentence.
Love your edits, Meg. (and that you actually take the time) What do you think about taking out that whole last part? It might be too short without it, but I keep thinking that computer bloody, sweaty stuff is just too disturbing.
I also like the listening to things no one else can hear line.
hmm.
Don't know what it was like before, but I like it as it is now! Nice job, Meg.