The Rising Cost of Milk

I'm in the back of car that I had never been in.

Guy 1 "Gas is so cheap"

Guy 2 "Fuck gas, I'm talking about the rising cost of milk"

Guy 1 "Word, for sure"

Holy shit. They were right! The cost of milk has been steadily increasing right before my very eyes. It's getting out of hand. There will need to be a lottery soon, or something. Raffle tickets for a shot at some mother fucking milk. Jesus. To think our mothers were so optimistic as to warn of a 'free milk' utopia where it flows like water. Holy fuck, how much is water?

Guy 2 "I'm thinking that I'm just going to buy a fucking cow."

Jesus Christ. Is this happening? They mean ACTUAL milk. Does no one see how beautiful and relevant this is? How much milk are these dudes drinking?

I don't want to over explain and ruin the subtlety of the awesomeness that was this conversation. But I have an over explaining problem. You see, milk is sex. And cows are women. I guess. Look, I didn't invent this metaphor, alright? I'm not even talking about it now. It's these dudes. I'm as shocked as you are.

But I used to own a cow. Er... I wasn't married. I mean I had a girlfriend. Girlfriends are cows, I guess. We'll go with that. So, I had a cow. But I traded it in... er gave it back. I switched farms. Or I decided to grocery shop again. Really, I moved to France. But now I'm cow-less. And that seemed awesome for awhile. And now I don't know. Milk is getting awfully expensive.

It's really just about adjusting to a milk free lifestyle. I guess. I really should drink more water (fit that into the analogy!). I have not been able to stop thinking about this conversation ever since. When I see a milk truck on the highway, I contemplate stealing it. Like it was a money truck.

Italy on the banana river.

I've been racking up a body count these last few years;
windshields, ex-girlfriends, bathroom doors, "best friends", my god damn about my home town, etc etc.

Along with all of these (mostly)tangible things, a great many little details have begun to accumulate in the back of my mind.

The impossibly deep caverns of my mind.

All the details that separate the "truth" of what happened from the proverbial

"conjecture."

Who kissed who first, why I even had cocaine to begin with, who actually had the car keys. The parts of the night that allow for narrow escapes in arguments with friends and lovers. The damning proof that I was up to no-good. I hide it, often times, with no reason whatsoever.

Burying the treasure for others to find.

Leaving the house open for embellishment, social slanderers and their poorly dressed backbiting friends.

I remember riding with a beautiful young woman along a perfect stretch of road that runs parallel with one of the most resplendent rivers in town. She wanted to hear her favorite song again and again. All I can remember short of those small fragments is that all I wanted in the world was to kiss that girl. All the rest of the information is gone. Why we were in a car alone driving around listening to that song, I haven't the foggiest.

Because to me, that's the most important part, that I was in the car with her.

Not the part that I may have been dating someone else or that I may not have been. Even at the instance the details are lost on me because in those far expanses of emptiness between my ears I hear one thing.

It won't matter tomorrow.

Rock The Sports Bar

Chopping a half a gram line in the bathroom of what could be qualified as, "the true central Florida beach-side-sports-bar-experience" can be a thrill.

Drinking pitchers of beer with what could pass as one of the roaming gangs of bikers-cum-cannibals in a wasteland fashioned after some hot, leather-clad, Mel Gibson movie can be annoying.

Stepping outside to your own ambient body temperature being so much higher than the air around you, that you steam.

Wiping semen on your shorts moments before you step to the stage can vacate your performance anxiety, at least long enough to make it up there.

Minutes after you leave the bar, an epic battle erupts time and time again.

Every time I've ever seen the inside of that bar, some of the most amazing nights I've ever been apart of took place.

I never felt bad about fucking that girl in the bathroom, but for some terrible reason I could never bring myself to brag. The words always failed me. Which is to say...

I felt bad about fucking the girl in the bathroom.

She bought me shoes a couple shows later. Or it might have been the same night.

I can't remember to save my life, but when I finally came clean about it, she'd already taken the credit. Leaving me with shame, like a 2nd place trophy.

Damn it.