#92.  They were on #63, and I pulled #92.  The meat counter was covered with blood guts and housewives.  This was the only place to escape the suburbs, this was real and fake and all of the plastic melted away into that sea of blood guts and housewives.  I could woo and romance a young girl here and the women would be blind and I would succumb to invisible adversity.  They order their rounds, their grounds, their fillets, steaks, sirloins, hearts, and brains, and I order the long white legs of liberated women stemming from skirts, planting their domestic pillars in dainty shoes of reds or pastels that always rode up the ankle, aiming to bright pink pussies and mediocre fucks of hopelessness.

The american dream was situated there, between the womb and the joke.  Where sons would genuflect with their praying hands riding their mother's curves and warmths.  Nervous wills and tongues finding home.

The meat counter roared with gossip and hushed observations of the butchers and the other men of the place.  The oversexed lesbians whose husbands work eight hour days are sure to romance burly men with cleavers in the presence of their peers, to nullify their own alienation, insecurities, and shames.

They all had their own agendas, and mine was to stand in the back, leaning against a green wall staring at all of the abandoned children.