The Journal of Microliterature
There is a straw – a girl, really – that I grasp at vainly. Very vainly. I stare in the mirror and think I’m beautiful as I grasp. She’s a straw that I know I’ll never wrap my lips around and suck on. She’s not that kind of straw anyway. She’s the kind that’s meant to be piled on top of other girls, or straws, on the back of the beast of burden until that final, glorious one that causes the entire spinal column of the poor animal to snap like a toothpick and send it crashing, screaming in agony, to the ground.
My question is: when did I become a fucking camel?