March 8, 2009

Hot wings from hell

Once you and I talked about what hell is, but only now do I know.

Hell is sitting in an important meeting at an investment bank, being asked important questions about subprime mortgage exposure, but only being able to think of the “suicidal” hot wings you ate last night.  Try not to think about it — it’s no use.

The beads of sweat were running down my forehead.  The suicidal hot wing sauce was a thick heavy oil, infused with fire itself.  Not particularly easy on the mouth, it becomes even more aggressive in situ.  I lost focus on the meeting as the greasy irritant suddenly and without warning hit some spot inside me that drove my body mad.  I should have seen this coming, except that I still can’t see much of anything since there must have been sauce residue on my hands when I adjusted my contact lenses this morning — couldn’t even keep them in my eyes.  Excuse yourself.  Run.  To the bathroom — quickly.  Oh no, you have to speak next.  Just try to sit still.  Sit still through the horrible feeling.

And people wonder why our financial system is in crisis.

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