The Stale Burger Monologue

Last year during Lent, some of my friends and I came up with the idea to write a piece every day. Here was one particularly odd writing of mine that ensued which I’ve decided to re-post.


I remember when I was freshly grilled, all the grease of my youth flowing. I didn’t worry then about whether I would find the embrace of a mouth, the warmth of hands against my soft buns. Life was hot, fast as I dripped with red, the color of vitality. And I was brightly arrayed then, more whimsical. Green frilled from my sides, begging for a breeze to uplift it and expose the softness lay below.

But time passes. Heating lamps change. Suddenly, you are no longer the freshest. There are others, newly minted, with a different sort of spice than you which you can’t compete with. The grease spots of age appear, your body becoming limp and… do I dare say the word they say about me now? I’ll force myself. You… you become… stale.

At first, I couldn’t bear the thought. How could it have happened to me, the hottest thing off the grill back in my day? But… I have come to accept my state at this point. I know I’ll be at the Home soon with piles of others around me, lying in the darkness un-thought of by others. But, I’ve heard… that there’s another life after this one. That you break down, become one with the earth again. That everyone gets there eventually, no matter what kind of life you lived, how many hands you left touch you, how many times you were flipped. I can only hope for the mercy of Cheese-us at this point.


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