Dear America,

Dear America,

I think we need to break up. This just isn’t working out.

I delivered food to an office building today. I was in an elevator, going to the ninth of fourteen floors. The elevator was crowded, and people seemed to keep cramming in. I figured it was lunch time: everyone was carrying their lunch.

They were all joking around with each other and laughing. The elevator stopped at the eighth floor. Someone amidst the rapid conversation wanted to know who was getting off on that floor. The person volunteered themselves. Then, someone else wanted to know who was getting off at the ninth floor, and one lady volunteered that it was the food.

Surprisingly, I didn’t get too angry. However, I was insulted. At first I wanted to tell her that I was an actual person. The more I thought about it, the more I just wanted to tell her that what she’d said was rude. But, by that time, I was already driving to my next delivery.

I think that technology makes it easy to disregard others. I don’t think that technology is the only thing that can do that—not by a longshot. But it really helps in the process.

To me, “a New York State of Mind” is a euphemism for being a bitch.

I don’t understand most people, and most people, I’m sure, do not understand me. This train of thought leads into a mistrust of technology, a subject I’ll post about in the coming days.

Yours truly,

Ezikiel Strawberry





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2 responses to “Dear America,

  1. maybe “the food” was short hand for “the handsome young gentlemen in the back there carrying the noontime meal for our co-workers” but she didn’t want to take that long cause the elevator doors might have closed before she finished and you would have missed your floor.
    Try always assuming that people mean the best/nicest unless you 100% know for sure they don’t.
    Just sayin’

    oh, and when did you change the spelling of your name?

  2. I like the new spelling. It was between “Ezikiel Strawberry” and “noontime peasant.”

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