Princes Street

I'm walking tonight

to leave these troubles behind,
hoping that if I take enough inspired turns,
they'll find some other poor, easier-to-track soul.

But suddenly it's late -
I've lost my sense of direction
but not the problem-dogs
and it's time to go home.

It's cold tonight -
Edinburgh streets are no place to sleep -
They'll stay with me tonight.

A Cry for Help:

If I have to eat at The Pit one more time I'm going to vomit.

My friend asked me what I had for lunch and I said discomfort-

DAMN YOU ARAMARK

Your food knocks me out

I eat and pass out meaning, sleep to recover

I need 5 hours at least before I feel I can walk...

And don't get me started on Panda Express,

I've never eaten rice still rock hard in the middle -

I thought this was Chinese food,

Rice is the staple, I would know -

SUSHI, seriously?!

I wouldn't touch Pit sushi with a ten-foot pole,

Try doing fries right first and then we'll talk sushi.

My only two options are salad or fat

And let's be honest; salad isn't food,

It's not an option.

So. . . it's decided then: fat for lunch

Do I want grease disguised as burger or pizza?

I just want lunch, not a coma.

Is this food seasoned with cinder blocks?

For the love of god, if death is the goal

Let's melt pads of butter, inject it directly into my bloodstream with a lunch gun

So I can get straight to my cardiac arrest nap

Without shoveling this garbage into my mouth.

All that being said, these tacos are pretty good.

Comfort Food

You make it look so easy –
everything clockwork:
cracked egg
noodles crispy
soy sauce
pork
perfect

I’ve been cooking all day
but can’t seem to get it –
sauce too runny
noodles overcooked...
something’s off

I promise
I’m doing the steps
just like you showed me.
I’m trying my best
but I could really use your help right now.

"A person who is nice to you but not nice to their waiter is not a nice person." - Dave Berry

I dreamed of you last night.

I can’t remember much, but I have vague memories of taxi rides, city lights, elephants, and fireworks.

I woke up with a smile on my face and the beautiful realization that I’m so happy I want to live even as I sleep.

I’m out of place here.

The mouse-faced man knows. Forever hunched and wringing his hands, he peers over his computer monitor with beady eyes, always watching, watching, watching. I feel him looking through me, asking me why I’m in his line of sight. Even just sitting here, I’m a bother to him. Every sneaked glance is an affirmation - “You don’t belong here.” He doesn’t think I see him staring, but I know. I know that he knows, and that he’s watching.

I wonder if he’s like that at home too – if he peeks at his mousey wife and mousey kids over the edge of his tilted bowl as he sips the last drops of soup. I’m not sure what type of soup (whatever kind that mice like to drink). I wonder if, after meals, he has crumbs he doesn’t know about stuck to his face (I can’t imagine him not).

Crumbs or not, I know one thing for sure. He is always watching, sneaking, affirming. “You don’t belong here.”

At first glance, the soil streaked man was a bundle of newspaper scraps and fabrics, a blurred collage of dirt and weathered shades. As I pressed change into his gloved palm, the mismatched man smiled and nodded, then asked me what my greatest weakness was. Patience was the first thing that came to mind.

He let out a hearty laugh. “That was my problem too. Be patient,” he said, “Someday you will have it.”