“Sucks to Be You”

I was in the standard waitress get-up, splotchy apron and unkempt plait, as tap water gushed into a customer’s glass.

“Aww,” a co-worker said towards a baby with a woollen hat enclosed around his ears.

“I want to be a baby,” I said to no-one in particular.

Back then, I was tired of sacrificing weekends to a red-faced boss. Like a doughy-faced baby, I ached to be doted on.

But now, looking around McDonald’s, all I see are straws searing plastic lids, yellow ‘M’s dwarfing a child’s excited face, eager for their mutant Mcnuggets, and the robotic bins dotted around the room, churning our leftovers.

In 2020, it’s the kids who have to save themselves.

Sixteen-year-olds have to mobilize if they hope for children themselves.  White haired men with dried up rivers creased in their skin are no longer needed.  It’ll be the young ones sweeping up our mess.

My childhood was during Hip Hop’s golden age, a yellow-tinged time, where afternoons were spent slapping mud onto a plastic table until something tangible was formed.  The afternoon ended with a bellyful of Monster Munch.

For the first time in human history, being a child is a curse.  And I’m so so sorry.