I am sad. I am melancholy. You’d think I’d be sprightly. What, with my colorful combinations and my bittersweet rosemary balsamic honey mustard garb? But why the wilted leaves, you may ask? Would you be happy if you were about to be eaten? I mean sure, it’s my only purpose in life. But, it’s a little daunting. I remember when I was several ingredients yet to be amalgamated. Just sitting. Seeping. Wishing. Waiting to be plucked, but also trembling with trepidation. You see, it’s an odd dynamic of wanting to be wanted, but hoping to remain unnoticed.
From the corner of mine eyes I saw that yellow golf pencil mark away my fate. The pencil was blunt, but she stroke with a sharp decisiveness: spring mix (romaine is too crass), chickpeas, grilled balsamic tofu, carrots, chopped tomatoes and edamame. Original? Perhaps not. Filling? Only until her next cigarette break.
I remember that (un)lucky moment in which Joe, the Phlegyas of my tale, relentlessly plowed his way through my various vats. We then entered our diaspora — the metal abyss of doom. We prayed for tossed, alack! She vehemently requested a double chop. The glistening surface of my maker was upon me. And I was ravaged.
“Margot.”
“It’s pronounced Margo. Yeah, that’s me...”
“For here or to go?”
“For here, please.”
“Sourdough or flaxseed?”
“Umm, I’m saving myself for dessert. The cupcakes look good.”
Lies, I exclaimed, all lies! I knew she was not a cupcake girl; she had no muffin top. And here we are, my plastic enclosure against the cold reality of my metallic guillotine.
“So, like, last night.”
“Yeah??”
“I was wearing my totally cute outfit that I was saving for like that special occasion but I realized that like its totally stupid to save my cutest outfits because I wanna look hot all the time.”
“Did you get black out?”
“Duh, I pregamed with Xanax.”
I reiterate, so why am I sad? This is my life.
