My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Oh, shit, man, doesn't that hurt?" "I'm fine." "C'mon, babe, lemme check it." "I'm  fine." "Dude." " What?!" "Let me look at it." "Ugh. Fine." "..." "...What?" "You look really pale, John." "Yeah, well, I don't like blood. You know that." "I get it." "No, you don't." "I do! Remember when I told you about that compound fracture I got when I was fifteen?" "...Right. When you were snowboarding?" "Yeah. Red snow everywhere. I fainted. Luckily, my dad got me back to the lodge before hypothermia kicked my ass." "...Least it makes sense." "What makes sense?" "A snowboarding accident." "As opposed to...?" "As opposed to me breaking a nail like a fucking pussy?" "Oh, John." ...

Folks, I'm tired. We'll talk later, okay? Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

First World Sartre by Belinda Roddie I want an existential crisis. Why can't I have one?

I Missed Thursday Night Pizza by Belinda Roddie I missed Thursday night pizza because I felt terribly ill after eating shrimp that just wasn't cooked properly. A sigh escaped me every minute that I dreamt of a triangular delicacy, laden with processed dairy, topped with meat for me to devour, content as can be. Instead, I lay in bed, shivering, feet buried in socks and blankets, as my friends all had their fun consuming, tearing through stuffed crust. This is the way the sweet world ends, I thought to myself. Not with a bang, you fool, but with an empty, heaving stomach. Just have to get over this small hummock.