On Gum

I hate gum. Hate it. Every night at dinner my sister would put her diisgusting, half-digested chewing gum on the edge of her plate. Revolting wad of spit-ridden brain mattter, oozing her filthy mouth juices into rivulets that flowed into her peas and mashed potatoes.

I hate stepping in gum and having to peel it off with my fingeers. I hate when my kneecaps discover gum underneath tables. Gum makes people look like stupid, arrogant cows. I'm sure that someday, when I'm lying in a pool of my own blood and I feel the icy grip of death take me, that I'll look up and over the barrel of a gun I'll see the face of my killer, and he'll be chewing gum.