Quarter Life Crisis

I bought a bottle of strawberry milk as a prop for my last sketch show. After the show, I put the prop in my fridge in case I wanted to drink some later. I didn’t.

But it’s milk.

I couldn’t let it go bad. I had to drink it. I brought it into my bedroom and took a sip. Strawberry milk is awful. It tastes like someone with a mucus problem spit in your pepto bismol. I only got through one sip, but then I left it on my windowsill. It’s very hard to throw away a mostly full bottle of strawberry milk – I always assume there will be a better use for it, but there is very little use for it.

Most of my writing is done wrapped in my 9 foot body pillow sitting against the wall while shaking off crumbs that get stuck in crevices of my body. Now I also have to stare at this menacing bottle of pink that illustrates all of my incapabilities.

How does a barely touched bottle of strawberry milk illustrate all of my incapabilities? Thanks for asking Nisse, I’ll explain.

1. I bought something I don’t like for the express purpose of using it once – I waste a lot because I think of an idea and then I refuse to follow through with it completely.

2. I now refuse to waste it by wasting it – My hypocritical stance on waste is embodied in this saliva filled stomach suppressor.

3. I’m too lazy to figure out a solution – Until this problem creates the inevitable stench of rotting dairy, I probably won’t do anything about this.

The above passage is what I pass for art in my life.

This girl is younger than me:

Her art is better than my art because she’s creative enough to burn dolls, hire child actors, and dance in an emotionally vulnerable way.


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