There’s a fly buzzing about. What a pigsty this place is, it should be condemned. My spaghetti with meatballs has too much oregano. Send it back, burn the menus, hang the chef Mussolini style. There’s a dust particle on the floor. Don’t get me started. I’m losing sleep. Mom calls, gives me grief about that pizza I burned fifteen years ago. You ruined it, she says, I could’ve broken teeth on the crust. Mom’s voice is like razor blades on chalkboard. When are you getting married, she barks, the fifty-third time she’s asked.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
96: Nitpickers Inc.
Posted by Christian Bell at 8:00 AM
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