My Cardboard Balcony

You Didn't Stutter by Belinda Roddie You asked me if you had stuttered. If your tongue had failed you once again in the execution of your bubbling, fleeting pubescent wrath. And I told you you didn't. That I had understood every goddamn word that had drifted like shrapnel from the fall-out. Every string of commentary unraveling from its film reel as the movie puttered out and faded to shivering gray. How dare I? Yes, and how dare you attempt to use a fishing hook to salvage my jaw. How dare you refuse me a steak dinner and then act upset when I pay my own way toward the meal. The gristle in your stomach sits, while the feast digests in mine. I'm not afraid of your judgment, or your lack of kindness. The lack of it should hurt you more. The unsettling of your life should make me smile.

"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind for the afterparty," grumbled Taylor as we took turns shoveling crumpled beer cans into the nearest recycling bins. "What did you have in mind, then?" I asked. "The magic New Year's fairy to clean up the mess?" "Shut your damn face. That's what I have in mind." On the corner, Wesley was waving us down with two garbage bags slung over his shoulders. Of course, he was still massively hungover.