My Milkshake

This is the story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down. It all started with my uncle's magnetic boots, my grandmother's iron ceiling tiles, & a bottle of Sprite. And a robot cricket named Ch33p3rs. And a YouTube video about cleaning the vents in a Datsun. Anyways

When the recording stopped, I replayed it, questioning if that intro is quirky enough. After that, I went to work, pouring over editing the rest of the video. I was hungry in the dull blue light–starving for fame. To be noticed. To be reassured that I do, in fact, exist.

I presented the video to the casting agent. “Not good enough!” he dismissed, “Not enough pizzazz! Not enough panash! Not enough pastiche!” He went on and on. “I say this is preposterous poppycock! Depart from my sight immediately!” I left, defeated.

“Poop!” I said. 12 years of Catholic school had made me very careful about my language. Even as an adult, alone, hard work dismissed, dreams shattered, that was the strongest 4-letter word I could say aloud. I was in dire need of a good strong milkshake.

I clutched my exam, the paper not crinkled enough to obscure my F-. I walked down the street to Mel’s and ordered my usual. “Here you go,” Mel said, sliding the shake down the counter. He noticed the tears welling under my eyes, and walked over with whip cream and extra cherries.