What the hell am I doing here? I’m lost. No, really, seriously, lost. Do you see all of those people down there like fucking ants?

Fucking ants?

Yeah. Fucking ants. I’m a fucking ant. A tiny, minuscule, fucking ant trying not to get stepped on. God’s going to step on me. One day when I’m out crawling around on my fucking little ant legs on the hot pavement –

Fucking little ant legs?

Yeah, fucking little ant legs. Do ants even know how hot the pavement is? I mean, seriously. I walk barefoot on the sidewalk in August, and my feet are blistered. So how in the hell does an ant not burn its fucking little ant feet off?

Maybe you’re not an ant after all. If you’ve got blistered feet and all.

Yeah, and Maybe God won’t step on me. Pity.

Pity?

Yeah, fucking pity.

Categories: Literary Lounge

Tags: existentialism