* jazzyhands *

::11.1.03::

Sometimes I feel like I am sitting in the waiting room of life squirming on an uncomfortable wooden chair and flicking through dated magazines. Occassionally, just before a name is about to be called, I look up hopeful and expectant. But the name called is never mine. I sit, dejected, wondering if I have been overlooked and forgotten. I ask the receptionist and she says my name is on the list and says to just sit down and not make trouble. I want to scream - but I was here before them, I've waited long enough - but I meekly go back to my seat and pick up the magazine.

The thought of pushing my through the door, guns ablazing, flickers through my head. It amuses and confuses. I don't even know which door.

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