Oysters

When I was 17 years old
I delivered pizza
to a man who said
“The world is your oyster, young man,”
After giving me a one dollar tip.
As I walked back to my car,
I realized he was right.

I fucking hate oysters.

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Thoughts in an Elevator

I am unreasonably out of breath from speed walking but don’t want the people in here to see me breathing through my mouth like a simpleton so to mask it I tilt my tongue to the side of my mouth and drag it against my gums with my lips slightly parted, as if I’m deep in thought
or have popcorn kernels stuck between my molars.The young woman next to me is wearing stockings that aren’t quite fishnets (although I wouldn’t don them to the office either) and I could probably detect her perfume from across an auditorium but instead we’re stuffed into this box like severed limbs in a suitcase so you can imagine the duress my nostrils are under.I press the button for the eleventh floor and observe the sequential exodus of this awkwardly silent vessel until we’re at the seventh floor and it’s only me and her and a rotund security guard who sidesteps out of the way without looking up from his phone when she says “this is my floor” to nobody in particular, which somehow makes this ascent even more unbearable because the security guard’s balding head is dripping with pungent sweat, and now I’m certain that the previously mentioned offensive odor was merely the byproduct of her overindulgence in fragrances and his underutilization of antiperspirants.
After realizing my error I take a gander in her direction through the closing elevator doors hoping she might turn around and grant me a fleeting glance, the kind that might cause one of us to post this encounter on Craigslist as a missed connection, but instead she doesn’t look back and I’m trapped in here with the sweaty guard until I get off on the eleventh floor, leaving him firmly planted in the elevator with his eyes glued to his phone even though no more floor numbers are lit up and there’s nowhere to go but down.