Music that sounds like singing in the shower after
spilling Four Loko on my stereo system,
brushed metal evolving to resemble Sharon Tate falling into her own
sword. Drinking this shit is an insult to Valentine's Day – I can see it in
the knobs and lights and buttons of my Frankensteinian stereo system,
as I, respectively, crank, wave at, and elbow them – trying to stop
them from drawing me into their conspiracy to validate
women's wrestling. Or wrestling women.
I hear that at thrift stores, there are special disposal chutes to get rid
of the putrid odor of clothes demoralized by molecules
infected phage-like by the previous owner's prior
experimentation with the drink.
I once placed a can of the stuff on my coffee table:
bits and pieces of the table banded together
to form a sad lynch mob burdened by a lost cause – then collectively
morphed into a rather plain, readily identifiable symptom of depression.
Looking a lot like a gallstone.
The real-life counterpart of a burrito is fecal matter – normally
not on the best of terms with each other, they will cooperate as a team
of engineers to devise alternative routes out of the body:
taking turns to sneak each other out on blue magnetic eddy currents
(helpfully induced by the drink itself). Playing dead while virtually-digested
Kellogg's Corn Flakes flank them, pallbearers that obey gravity in so
far as it reconnects them with that mythical recycling facility –
where they are to be grafted into the Babylonian
Jenga tower of shit that is purported to reach all the way into space
where it no longer suffers the risk of falling over.
'What are those shapes in the background?' I was referring to the
cube-shaped shadows on the wall behind my Valentine's date – sort of
leaping out of her own shadow. It looked strange, but amazing.
Could this … ? Nah. Could those shadowy chunks be emitted by
my new-found ADD's relatedness – or the lack thereof - to the functionality of a power saw?