Does such a term as "morbid hope" not appear to be at least slightly oxymoronic? The housewife clings to a pink cellphone that feeds on livelihood and good sense like a parasitic pink maggot. With each monotonous ring manufactured on a hard-drive in Osaka, her heart flutters and hands spastically search through a polyurethane purse that in the long-run will kill more Guatemalan factory workers (due to the poisonous fumes during the manufacturing process) than the luck-of-the-draw Southern Ontario highway pileup she pines for. The notion that for us to live others must die is reminiscent of Pop Art and the Black Plague, two things that went out of style and created unnecessary death (in the case of the former I refer not to Warhol's death, but the death of artistic ingenuity and integrity). The housewife's justification is as misguided as a canvas of Campbell's soup cans.
"What if I get the call?"
Oh, the call, the call. Always expecting the call. Let the pink maggot consume your flesh, cultivate your organs, make jewelry of your eyes to sell at El Mercado Central to American tourists. The call is an excuse, a voice, a reason, a guiding light, a saving grace, a pinnacle that dangles just out of reach that will change life for the better and once grasped will fix faulty leaks and marriages.
