I wanted to strangle Sheri.  I wanted to see her cold blues eyes fill up with redness whilst I took my smallish hands around her neck and squeezed.  Her obnoxiousness would be matched by my thumb pressing slowly but effectively into her jugular.  I was done with muttering "fuck you" and pretending to listen to her opposite-of-helpful instructions.

But then she said something as she swept unnecessarily under where I was standing.  [I just made you read "underwear"] 

"I can't tell what's glitter and what's glass."

And I'm a sucker for poetry unbeknown to the poet.  That's how He calms me down.

Last night a car crashed into the shop and shattered the wall that is not a shatter virgin.  In the past three years, the flower shop has had at least five damaging collisions.  I spent the first hour or two of my nine-and-a-half hour shift hoping that I do not kneel on glass shards when I swept around the tables and counters.  The UPS Guy (if you've met him, you won't forget him) told me it was probably a Latin King disciple who jumped out of the car and let it go "wherever it went, not caring if they ran over a little old lady."  It was eleven o'clock at night; if a little old lady was out she would most likely be one of the bitches who had a Latin King's babies.  But that's beside the point.

The point is that Sheri should die.  Or retire.  Or just not talk.

Nothing Affects Everyone

 

and this is why Israel's conquest on the happiness of the Palestinians does not mean a thing.

 

I wish it weren't so.

Deportation should mean more to you and me. 

At least more than the song "Such Great Heights."