Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Taco Hell

I woke up this morning ready to drink an ocean wave. I'm not talking about a Sonic slush, I mean an Atlantic tide. If we're going to get specific, I'd actually choose a current from the Arctic since it's colder, but either way, you catch my drift. I could have saved you a lot of time by just saying I was thirsty, but if I was here to save you time, then I wouldn't be writing this at all, now would I?

I swung open my front door ready to walk to the Taco Bell that sits just at the end of my road (blessing or curse?), only to find that instead of thinking, Baja Blast! Here I come!, my initial reaction was Baja Blast! Here I FUCK. 

Let me go ahead and explain that my front door frame is not where I fuck. "Fuck" was an interjection that came between the thought of a cold drink and the sight of the millions of ice cube trays that had been turned upside down from the sky before they even had time to freeze. (That's my poetic way of saying It was raining.)

Well, I thought, which turned into Well FUCK, which turned into Oh well, leading me to grab my poncho. After retrieving the overpriced piece of plastic, I went to fetch my wallet.

You might know where this is going.

A. I found my wallet
B. I had no fucking idea where my wallet was

Remember those books that let you choose how the story went based on the scenario you picked? "If you chose Option A, flip to page 140. If you chose Option B, flip to page 160." We're going to do that right now, and if you don't know what I'm talking about, you were deprived of childhood. Good luck never gaining it back.

If you chose Option A, this is how the story goes:

I found my wallet. I purchased my drink. I drank my drink. I lived happily ever after.

If you chose Option B, this is how the story goes:

I looked everywhere for my fucking wallet and couldn't find it. Then I decided to write about it, so I grabbed my desk but was unable to figure out how to unfold the fucking thing. Then I discovered that my cat had puked up BALLS of brown vomit all over one of the bedrooms. Then I went to the kitchen to get something to eat, because by this point I was both parched and famished, only to discover that the only food I had was a small package of Pop Rocks that advised me to "taste the explosion," and an after-dinner mint.

There was also a can of soup in my cupboard, but this doesn't count because 1) I don't own a can opener, 2) I don't know how that can of soup even got there, and 3) I don't own anything to heat the soup in. Let's not forget 4) I have no spoons.

The only drink in my fridge is the lone survivor of a PBR 6-pack. This is the last thing I need. No hair of any dog will help me forget the mexican explosion of a blue Mountain Dew.


Excuse me.

Well, that ruined everything. This is what happens when you have ADD. It may seem like I have sat here and typed all of this out, but in reality, I'll write a few sentences, then get up for no apparent reason, then forget what I was going to do, then sit back down, then stare at a few areas of the carpet, then text someone, and so on and so forth. I had gotten up to pick up a few articles of clothing merely to throw them back down on the floor, when I heard the jingling of my wallet. Then I immediately jogged to T-Bell, only to find that I was neither hungry nor thirsty anymore. 

C. I found my wallet and defeated the entire purpose of this post. My apologies. Fuck you, wallet. Fuck you.

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