January 1st and change: hold the quarterlife crises. In the dulcet tones of Marv Albert: Now they're saying it's almost February. At Jersey Mike's down the shore; just ordered a fat sandwich. Now they're saying it's an Italian Stallion. Hand him a crumpled five dollar bill. Sure, it's $8.39, but you don't want all those meaty tertiary bills and coins and—Now they're saying he's on the run from police.
Hid in a Chinese food shop, fucked around and got a part-time job as a delivery man-outlaw. Gotta go deliver this general chow to Point Pleasant; hit traffic and ended up eating this motherfucker's lunch (lol). Had to buy some Tso at a Nu Man Thing on the way, deliver to this shore trash, and apologize for the inconvenience. Ended up doing his dishes and 'comforting' his wife to make amends for my egregious error. Also promised to attend his youngest daughter's Communion (they still do that?), but y'all know I'll eat my way out of that pickle.
The raucous caucasian Asian deliverist. On the run from the popo since twenty oh something low. Got Pixies blasting in the Jetta—the new meta is old shreddahs. Celestaphone calling me; hit ignore or snore or throw the phone out the fucking door. Welp, of course it had to hit that elderly woman's Lincoln MKZizzle. Giggle. No laughing while driving—that deceptively pink Chevy could be a feddy. No distractions; this orange chicken combo meal isn't going to delectably satiate its intended recipient by its-fucking-self.
Blogger; driver; lane-clogger; 9-to-5er. Part-time liar. Full-time heart-miner. Five-time Emmy award watcher. 25-time why-am-I-still-here monitor. Wristwatch checker. It's 4:55 and—holy shit—I still need to deliver these eggrolls to these dreg-holes. I'm in Generic Bad Area, NJ, 66666. Homeless wanderer just approached me at a stoplight. I dropped a couple shekels in his coffee can, so all my sins are henceforth forgiven.
Wait, that's not a cop, right?
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