Strange Parallels
In my refrigerator is a box of food from my old apartment, which includes some very green furry cheese, and a couple other things in sealed boxes. Beyond that, there are six or seven containers of drinks in various stages of development – I am waiting for the plastic orange juice container to blow up to the point where it explodes. My ex-wife and I once had that happen in the map holder behind the passenger seat of her car, but it was one of those extreme algae drinks and it took forever to get the shit out of there.
It should be no surprise that I’ve started eating out a lot. Or maybe if I started cooking again, I’d be more compelled to keep things organized in the fridge. Then again, the small thrill I get every day when I go to the restaurant I always eat at, near my old apartment, is enough to help me make it through work. It’s one of those places with a steady stream of customers who all seem to know each other. Whether from going there so often or from the small size of our supposedly big city, I don’t know. In any case, today I saw this girl there who I knew.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s to blame in a breakup. You can look back on it and analyze it in so many different ways, but emotions are subjective. You can blame yourself and remember the horrible things you said, or you can remember all the horrible things they said to you, and blame them. It rolls both ways, and it rolls every day. It’s like an echo, or ripples in water, or some other lame cliché. Eventually when you’re on level ground, that ball will stop rolling and it’ll sit there, and you can pick it up and put it in your pocket. You can take it out and look at it, but when it’s in your pocket, you don’t need to worry about it anymore.
Sitting in my chair, reading the paper, and eating my soup, I never bothered looking up after my first chance to stare at her and bring the knives out. My relationship with the girl at my restaurant was like all the shit in my refrigerator; I really just needed to stop being so lazy and cook more.
It should be no surprise that I’ve started eating out a lot. Or maybe if I started cooking again, I’d be more compelled to keep things organized in the fridge. Then again, the small thrill I get every day when I go to the restaurant I always eat at, near my old apartment, is enough to help me make it through work. It’s one of those places with a steady stream of customers who all seem to know each other. Whether from going there so often or from the small size of our supposedly big city, I don’t know. In any case, today I saw this girl there who I knew.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s to blame in a breakup. You can look back on it and analyze it in so many different ways, but emotions are subjective. You can blame yourself and remember the horrible things you said, or you can remember all the horrible things they said to you, and blame them. It rolls both ways, and it rolls every day. It’s like an echo, or ripples in water, or some other lame cliché. Eventually when you’re on level ground, that ball will stop rolling and it’ll sit there, and you can pick it up and put it in your pocket. You can take it out and look at it, but when it’s in your pocket, you don’t need to worry about it anymore.
Sitting in my chair, reading the paper, and eating my soup, I never bothered looking up after my first chance to stare at her and bring the knives out. My relationship with the girl at my restaurant was like all the shit in my refrigerator; I really just needed to stop being so lazy and cook more.
Greg @ 7:30 PM
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