Blogspot, lightly sweetened oat bran flakes.
It rained very hard this morning and there were puddles all over Park Avenue. The women of investment banking teemed at the corners, afraid to slosh into the street. It was a scene reminiscent of nature footage of wildebeest preparing to ford crocodile infested waters. Or Frogger. In this context, I had a flash of nostalgia.
In 2nd grade, my teacher introduced our class to the wonders of plant vascular structure, capillary action and food coloring. We all had Tupperware vats of blue liquid that we stuck celery into. In our marbled composition notebooks, we jotted down our unfounded hypotheses about the fate of our celery. Peyton Eisenstein-Nichol confided in me that she though the celery would melt. She always was a stupid girl.
Of course, my bachelor’s degree now tells me that the blue coloration would climb up the celery’s xylems, progressively choking off the poor plant’s life as the hypertonic fluid drained its cells of precious turgor. At the time, some little shit dared to eat a piece of the blue celery. Alas, my 2nd grade self was a huge pussy—and everyone knew it.
I was reminiscing about this as I huddled among the stylish metaphorical wildebeest this morning, thinking how my pants were like that celery. Since the beginning of 2007, I’ve lost 3 inches off my waist, but I’ve yet to replace my work wardrobe. As a result, my pants are always sliding off my freshly crafted ass, making brushing contact with whatever was on the ground. The mucky rainwater would slowly ascend my leg via trouser solvating not food coloring, but dead rat proteins, taxi tread and possibly the residue of a used condom.
It is now 3 hours later. My pants are still wet and endearingly grayish. Rat blood and lube sure make great surfactant.
It rained very hard this morning and there were puddles all over Park Avenue. The women of investment banking teemed at the corners, afraid to slosh into the street. It was a scene reminiscent of nature footage of wildebeest preparing to ford crocodile infested waters. Or Frogger. In this context, I had a flash of nostalgia.
In 2nd grade, my teacher introduced our class to the wonders of plant vascular structure, capillary action and food coloring. We all had Tupperware vats of blue liquid that we stuck celery into. In our marbled composition notebooks, we jotted down our unfounded hypotheses about the fate of our celery. Peyton Eisenstein-Nichol confided in me that she though the celery would melt. She always was a stupid girl.
Of course, my bachelor’s degree now tells me that the blue coloration would climb up the celery’s xylems, progressively choking off the poor plant’s life as the hypertonic fluid drained its cells of precious turgor. At the time, some little shit dared to eat a piece of the blue celery. Alas, my 2nd grade self was a huge pussy—and everyone knew it.
I was reminiscing about this as I huddled among the stylish metaphorical wildebeest this morning, thinking how my pants were like that celery. Since the beginning of 2007, I’ve lost 3 inches off my waist, but I’ve yet to replace my work wardrobe. As a result, my pants are always sliding off my freshly crafted ass, making brushing contact with whatever was on the ground. The mucky rainwater would slowly ascend my leg via trouser solvating not food coloring, but dead rat proteins, taxi tread and possibly the residue of a used condom.
It is now 3 hours later. My pants are still wet and endearingly grayish. Rat blood and lube sure make great surfactant.
posted by Byron at 11:28 AM
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