Plan A is Amazing.
Adventurous. Awesome. Astounding.
Plan B is boring. bourgoise. bullshit.
Plan B is nothing.
Plan B is to drift in a bathtub, your hair floating, pretending to be a mermaid. Who is pretending to be a human. Who can fall in love with prince. And then ditch him.
Plan B is to roll your eyes, constantly, all the time, every second, at what Mother (and Her Mother, and Her Sister, and Their Cousin) is saying and doing.
Plan A is to leap for the stars, jump across oceans, fly through mountains.
Plan B is a jar full of brain-dead.
Plan A is to eat stale bread and cheese in a room in nowhere. Plan B is to suck the blood of Mother’s heart, stewed with aubergines and fried onions and served with rice cooked with a saffron and yogurt layer.
Plan B stares at you over your shoulder, when you look in the mirror. Plan A hums softly from your computer screen.
Plan B is nothing, Plan B is nowhere.
Plan B is the room in the centre of the universe, looking out on Alborz mountains. Plan B is the sound of voices you heard in your womb, Plan B is forever and ever, Plan A sometimes and a year or two.
Plan B is out to get us.