friction fiction fridays

With every click, another cut. "Is that an ulcer forming?," I wonder to no one in particular. Or is it a chop? Hacking away at any semblance of a relaxing farewell semester in my adopted city. The old inhibitions came whispering back now. "They're all going to find out you're really an idiot." (Little did you know that proof was already on its way; already around, actually). It was turning into a horrid swan song of a thing, really, this spring.

Click. Click. Click. Chop. Chop. Chop.

"Let me send you this and this, too."

You're writing him a speech; he says let's make it an hour long.

The day drags and gallops on. Aforementioned proof arrives.

Consolation comes in the form of sitting at home determined to write a fairytale revolving around the sultry macerations of the world's greatest Oreo eating tomato. Instead the words that want to come out are the words wrapped around your day.