The headless birdman
Based on a true story. (Literally, this is just something that happened to me.)
Based on a true story. (Literally, this is just something that happened to me.)
It was a typical Tuesday afternoon when Chipotle first opened on campus, like a mirage in the desert — or, more accurately, a glistening beacon of guacamole in a wasteland of sad cafeteria salads and overpriced Starbucks sandwiches.
“No worries,” I thought, glancing down at my closed-toed footwear. Feeling confident, I strutted forward, without worrying about the puddle in front of me.
I was a statue, haunted by the phantom of my former self, metal handle tight between my fingers as I grimaced at the students who passed.
The library would be packed on any other night. This was finally my chance to get a good spot.
Suddenly, as if the universe had heard me, a MasterChef audition invite arrived in my inbox.
I thought he was mere folklore — a boogeyman, a myth that goes bump(?) in the night.
To the fridge I head, seeking the only comfort this pale life offers me.
It's brother-against-brother, cats-eating-their-own-young, neighbors-knocking-over-each-others-bins-and-blaming-raccoons — society!?