I have been thinking of the avocado toast that stained my fingers green
in the lecture hall this morning. I was trying to eat quietly but the crust kept
crunching, scraping my gums, teeth clacking as my professor waxed poetic on
vectors and orderly bits of code. I am sure people were staring. Six hours
later, my cuticles are still a light lime. What I mean is, I think my existence is
unfairly of this world. It is too easy to tell I am human, entropic and
disorderly. What I mean is, why is it so humiliating to be exactly what I am?
What I mean is: this world is full of rejection, and unless you are celestial you
will become familiar with its aftertaste. But I am sick of telling myself that
life must go on, that the world will keep turning and we will keep bumping
together and scattering like atoms, like humans do, disorderly and entropic as
we are, that is to say: for the foreseeable future, my hands will continue to
hang at my side and open doors and hold pencils because it is their
way—regardless of the stains. Regardless of the stains.
Lunch and its consequences
