They cancelled her favorite show.
She couldn’t fast forward through commercials anymore.
It’s a metaphor, her boss said, and he’d read about it on the internet.
She sent him a goodbye letter via text; never said goodbye.
Like a band aid to fix a chipped tooth.
I’m always ending up in the wrong penalty box.
The world, she claimed, should be more disclaimer-friendly.
The scenes for the next episode felt useless.
None of the plotlines get resolved.
Would the trimmigrants revolt before or after they smoked the entire grow?
Did she really love him, and/or his sister?
And the world was in the midst of an illegitimate baby crisis.
For symbolic purposes, she mixed whiskey and syrup.
He looked for someone to blame.
The same coat of paint atop the one before.
Another night at the opera.
He talked about the universe as if it were a self-cleaning oven.
Really, she said, it’s a shopping cart filled with all the broken wheels from the other shopping carts.