Cellular Soliloquy: The French-Fry Saga, Part I

What happens in my crazy life.

Salt grazed my chapped red lips.

The sultry sting of my childhood addiction.

The parchment tipped and

jettisoned the potatoes.

There goes my f*****g Mister Coney.

 

The thrust of the brake,

forced our bodies forward,

as time paused,

strapped us into reality,

and the light changed from yellow to red.

There goes five f*****g dollars.

 

The screech of rubber,

echoed by the scream of swear words

from a “tweenager”

eager to feast.

F*****g really, mom?

 

One hand wrapped firmly around the wheel,

and the other wrapped loosely around a conversation.

The fry flew from the bag to the dash.

F*****g cell phone.

Author's Note

The image is NOT me, but it fit perfectly!