by Gregory Sherl

 

I’m dedicating these words to the confetti streaming down my hips.

It’s been a sweaty year.

The bartender mixed the wrong drink and now I’ve got beer breath and a stomach full of gum. Now there are wintergreens growing in my lungs and my cigarettes are upset.

I always refer to our second hour in bed as my sophomore slump, so I end every sentence with but thank you for marrying me anyway!

My Zippo only lights on the weekends.

Nothing stays, not even walls, not even heartache.

I have a temporal lobe, but I don’t know what it does. I was going to Google it, but instead I Googled where does the phrase KISS UNTIL THE COWS COME HOME come from? I found my answer and then climbed into an air duct and mimed the plot of Die Hard while you checked the expiration date on the gallon of milk in the fridge.

It was just another fucking Tuesday.

 

(-)

 

Gregory Sherl is the author of The Future for Curious People.

 

 

Advertisements

One thought on “American Spirits

Comments are now closed.