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The Existential Terror of Someone Else’s Cheese Fries
By Edward Urkowitz
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“Asses, man, lemme tell ya, everyone talks about the fuggin’ ass, yeah? But, lord ahmighty, things jus’ ain’t that simple. Can’t jus’ breggidown like that, y’know?”

Drunkenness is probably a sin, Zelda thought, though momma doesn’t seem to mind it too terribly. Even so, Uncle doesn’t seem like he’s especially pleased with himself.

“Fuck the ass!”

Going on from Uncle, Zelda swiveled in her seat to observe the rest of the patrons, all varying degrees of lucid, all pouring sweat onto the floor. How she was going to be able to be like this when she grew up, Zelda had no idea. Ideally, she’d end up more like that lonely, mysterious woman in the corner, slowly chewing on… what could they possibly be?

Just going off of sight, they were some kind of fries, though to call them that went against the very nature of what a fry is, for this was somehow greater than and beneath an actual fry. Knave, she’d been a knave before, limiting the rules of nature to what is possible within the laws of the universe. Longingly, Zelda gazed into the abyss, feeling her consciousness being reshaped by the impossibility of what she saw.

“mmmm heyyou lissnin t’ meeeeeeeeeee Zelda?”

No, am I? Of course I am, but how could she be sure of anything anymore. Perhaps going over what she knew for sure in her head would help her to alleviate the tension. Questioning the nature of what a French fry, and, by extension, the universe, is may have been her mistake.

Realistically, a French fry is a simple creation, a potato that has been sliced into wedges (size doesn’t matter) and cooked in boiling oil, which is then salted and served. Salted and served. To say that those things had simply been salted and served would be an insult, a heresy, an affront(!) to what it means to salt and serve. Usual knowledge no longer applied as the woman lifted the dripping insanity to her lips, teeth separating the molecules, breaking them down into smaller but no less important blocks of life.

Verily, the entire bar began to melt around Zelda along with the fries. What had once been a disappointing night away from her parents had gone wrong, so wrong(!), how could she have been such a fool!

“Xxxxxxzactly my point, y’know?”

“You shouldn’t give kids alcohol Uncle.”

Zelda passed out onto the floor, which filled her with relief to know that something was still real.

Description
The Existential Terror of Someone Else’s Cheese Fries
By Edward Urkowitz
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

“Asses, man, lemme tell ya, everyone talks about the fuggin’ ass, yeah? But, lord ahmighty, things jus’ ain’t that simple. Can’t jus’ breggidown like that, y’know?”

Drunkenness is probably a sin, Zelda thought, though momma doesn’t seem to mind it too terribly. Even so, Uncle doesn’t seem like he’s especially pleased with himself.

“Fuck the ass!”

Going on from Uncle, Zelda swiveled in her seat to observe the rest of the patrons, all varying degrees of lucid, all pouring sweat onto the floor. How she was going to be able to be like this when she grew up, Zelda had no idea. Ideally, she’d end up more like that lonely, mysterious woman in the corner, slowly chewing on… what could they possibly be?

Just going off of sight, they were some kind of fries, though to call them that went against the very nature of what a fry is, for this was somehow greater than and beneath an actual fry. Knave, she’d been a knave before, limiting the rules of nature to what is possible within the laws of the universe. Longingly, Zelda gazed into the abyss, feeling her consciousness being reshaped by the impossibility of what she saw.

“mmmm heyyou lissnin t’ meeeeeeeeeee Zelda?”

No, am I? Of course I am, but how could she be sure of anything anymore. Perhaps going over what she knew for sure in her head would help her to alleviate the tension. Questioning the nature of what a French fry, and, by extension, the universe, is may have been her mistake.

Realistically, a French fry is a simple creation, a potato that has been sliced into wedges (size doesn’t matter) and cooked in boiling oil, which is then salted and served. Salted and served. To say that those things had simply been salted and served would be an insult, a heresy, an affront(!) to what it means to salt and serve. Usual knowledge no longer applied as the woman lifted the dripping insanity to her lips, teeth separating the molecules, breaking them down into smaller but no less important blocks of life.

Verily, the entire bar began to melt around Zelda along with the fries. What had once been a disappointing night away from her parents had gone wrong, so wrong(!), how could she have been such a fool!

“Xxxxxxzactly my point, y’know?”

“You shouldn’t give kids alcohol Uncle.”

Zelda passed out onto the floor, which filled her with relief to know that something was still real.