Waiting in line at the bank.
Money money money.
I’d rather take burritos instead.
It would be nice if my grandfather wrote me a check for burritos on my birthday.
He writes the check because he feels like he should get me something.
But he hasn’t even the slightest clue what I’d want.
I’d like burritos.
I’m not achingly far from the burrito stand, but it’s really not the same.
The check isn’t rolled with salsa or guacamole, but my least favourite sauce.
The vicious, goopy burden of choice.
I don’t want numbers I can fluctuate responsibly.
Make it out of corn flour instead.
I’m not the first or the last to suggest that money is physically worthless.
The only currency my body accepts is calories.
Now those are useful.
I’ve decided I’ll ask my landlord, I bet he’d go for it.
I’ll arrange to have eighteen quesadillas deposited to him on the twenty third of each month.
I’ll stuff my electricity metre with tortilla chips dunked in sour cream.
Maybe I can start getting salaried in rolled tacos? I sure work hard enough.
I’ll ask at my job to see if I can start topping up my pension fund with spicy corn.
I’m thinking I’ll be hungry once I’m old.
Quit Vision 