SexKitten
Shared on Mon, 02/26/2007 - 07:59I didn't notice until a few minutes ago that part of my message was deleted and didn't make the post. I am a writer and I have lots of friends that are writers...this was supposed to be a homage to the creativity of one of those people. I thought it was amazing and felt the need to share. Unfortunately there was a problem with getting it in here and I had to do it like 10 times. .In that process, part of my message was omitted by mistake. This is a piece that was written by a friend of mine, Michael. I will not apologize for my mistake, however I give credit where credit is due.... believe it or not...take it; don't take it.... and in the true words of kitten FUCK IT!!!!
I tossed the little ringer behind my hip and onto the floor not realizing that what I held in my hand was the last of the six pack. It was sixteen ounces and it was cold and like the five before, I really wanted to drink it. I had no real realization as the rings hit the floor that this would be the last one for me; at least until morning. But when the last drop was in my gullet and I sent the aluminum frame down with it's five empty brethern on the floor beside me, I felt it was gone. I realized it was gone. I found what I knew would happen when I opened the first one. When I thought that those six larger than retail cans of God's nectar would last forever.
They did not. They never do. I was drunk enough to go to bed, but drunk enough to want to drink some more. I'm not a whiskey drinkin' guy, so there is never booze in the house. I dug through the cabinents and found cans of food I bought a long time ago, believing I might actually cook them. I found crackers and tuna and the half empty jar of peanut butter that I keep around for emergencies. Not that I need an emergency to eat peanut butter. Of course, that's why it's half empty. I like peanut butter. It surprised me that there were still all those crackers and peanut butter left. But I was after a speakeasy snack, so I went to the refrigator. Or the beer cabinent as it is better known in my apartment.
I have bits and pieces of every condiment known to man. A full bottle of ketchup, a mostly eaten jar of olives, Pepto Bismal, small plastic container of jalapeno infused mustard, an untouched jar of spicy bread n' butter pickles, Kraft Blue Cheese salad dressing, Teriaki sauce, parmesian cheese and little packets of salt and pepper that I saved from various fast food delacacies. But the only sign of the intoxication I am seeking are the little skeletons of six packs past. I check them carefully, but where each little hole once held a can of magic, it now looks at me with all it's O mouths surprised. It's about as fond of being pillaged as I am. Where did all the beer go?
It may be fall, but sometimes the crops reach harvest not when the seasons change, but when man most needs whatever is growing on the vine. I walked outside and most of my prayers were answered below my balcony. The cigarette butts I had tossed over the railing had grown a bush, healthy with colorful blooms of Marlboro and Winston and Kool. The beer I dribbled and spilled upon the stairs to my abode had formed roots into the concrete. I picked it's many ears like fruit and pulled back the shucks to reveal bottles of beer. Dark, pale, full flavor, light. Ales and Bocks and Pilsners.
I always wanted to work the land. Across the parking lot was the dumpster I threw my trash in. It hatched fruit from my waste. Loaves grew from crumbs on branches, fruit on vines bred from rinds. Fields of pasta waved in stiff rows. As wonderful menage as a Van Gogh painting.
But all was not right. If it was harvest time, I was going to have to pluck and pull and tug quickly. I shoved them into pillow cases, Marlboro and melons and Milwaukee's Best.
I had thrown out alot of things that I never knew I'd consumed. Partionally hydrogenated sunflower oil leaked out of the dumpster's drain holes and into a pool as I picked. It was forming into something unmentionable. The calm sky opened up and rained down high fructose corn syrup. It was getting sticky out here but there was harvesting to be done. I pushed on. The corn syrup run off ran off to join the shape that the sunflower oil was forming. Individually, they were transparent, like water or air. But together, they formed their own blue luminescence. Glowing despite the moonlight. Glowing despite the street lights. Shining enough to light my labors as I harvested the name brand sins before me
They did not. They never do. I was drunk enough to go to bed, but drunk enough to want to drink some more. I'm not a whiskey drinkin' guy, so there is never booze in the house. I dug through the cabinents and found cans of food I bought a long time ago, believing I might actually cook them. I found crackers and tuna and the half empty jar of peanut butter that I keep around for emergencies. Not that I need an emergency to eat peanut butter. Of course, that's why it's half empty. I like peanut butter. It surprised me that there were still all those crackers and peanut butter left. But I was after a speakeasy snack, so I went to the refrigator. Or the beer cabinent as it is better known in my apartment.
I have bits and pieces of every condiment known to man. A full bottle of ketchup, a mostly eaten jar of olives, Pepto Bismal, small plastic container of jalapeno infused mustard, an untouched jar of spicy bread n' butter pickles, Kraft Blue Cheese salad dressing, Teriaki sauce, parmesian cheese and little packets of salt and pepper that I saved from various fast food delacacies. But the only sign of the intoxication I am seeking are the little skeletons of six packs past. I check them carefully, but where each little hole once held a can of magic, it now looks at me with all it's O mouths surprised. It's about as fond of being pillaged as I am. Where did all the beer go?
It may be fall, but sometimes the crops reach harvest not when the seasons change, but when man most needs whatever is growing on the vine. I walked outside and most of my prayers were answered below my balcony. The cigarette butts I had tossed over the railing had grown a bush, healthy with colorful blooms of Marlboro and Winston and Kool. The beer I dribbled and spilled upon the stairs to my abode had formed roots into the concrete. I picked it's many ears like fruit and pulled back the shucks to reveal bottles of beer. Dark, pale, full flavor, light. Ales and Bocks and Pilsners.
I always wanted to work the land. Across the parking lot was the dumpster I threw my trash in. It hatched fruit from my waste. Loaves grew from crumbs on branches, fruit on vines bred from rinds. Fields of pasta waved in stiff rows. As wonderful menage as a Van Gogh painting.
But all was not right. If it was harvest time, I was going to have to pluck and pull and tug quickly. I shoved them into pillow cases, Marlboro and melons and Milwaukee's Best.
I had thrown out alot of things that I never knew I'd consumed. Partionally hydrogenated sunflower oil leaked out of the dumpster's drain holes and into a pool as I picked. It was forming into something unmentionable. The calm sky opened up and rained down high fructose corn syrup. It was getting sticky out here but there was harvesting to be done. I pushed on. The corn syrup run off ran off to join the shape that the sunflower oil was forming. Individually, they were transparent, like water or air. But together, they formed their own blue luminescence. Glowing despite the moonlight. Glowing despite the street lights. Shining enough to light my labors as I harvested the name brand sins before me
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