Loving Beer Cans

And so, this very evening, that the rain fell down upon us, and the wind howled in front of us, and our skateboards got a tiny bit wet, so skating was a no-no. It was in great disdain that this happened us, the weary travelers from o'er the hill. So with a belly full of Aldi style crunchy nut cereal, we descended the bridge on the way home, debating what to do now. Oreos were a must, as the first call of order. Beer, second. Third, ingest said substances and reminisce. Thus, the great tale of which I have spoken has led me here to you, oh wisest of internets. I shall abide to you in future; you shall know what must be undertaken.
   I digress.
   For now, I shall be chilling in my sitting-room, with my cold can of Pratsky (that's not the correct spelling, but I prefer it), and listen to the Pretty Reckless. Damn. Not entirely sure where I'm going with this week's edition of bullhassy, but how and ever. I haven't thought about a title as of yet, but food it shall not be. I want to watch Gossip Girl, might just do that. Anyone who is into real die hard, shit hitting the fan, balls to the wall drama, check it out. Best show I have seen in a long time, since Pokemon before it turned into the sado-communist ideals, manipulator of children's minds.
   The Pratsky is edging ever closer towards the temperature of Mount Doom, I shall indulge swift and quick. The nectar of the elders is sweet, but she's a demon in her own right. She has a crisp outer body, yet soft to the touch. She'll let you caress her, make her your own, but she will remain distant in the mind's eye. Always there, never to be seen fully until she wills it. When she touches your lips, she makes your heart jump in glee, yet you know this newly found happiness is in essence only temporary, so that same movement of your heart only relinquishes to drop harder than the bass at any given generic house night. She has that slow moving effect of hurting, but doing so in a way that you won't notice until the fire has covered you from tip to toe. Her art is menacing; you will keep going to her, while she flaunts with other beings. You'll chase her to the doorstep of her home, yet you will not get in. All you want is one minute alone with her you tell her father, but he has already left to find the shotgun. I say again, she will lie with you in your arms embrace, but she won't love you. She can't. She's a beer can. A nice one too, at that.
   Halfway through the Pretty Reckless album after skipping a couple of songs. How I love that band. Oh, how I do.
   Title shall be Loving Beer Cans, for everyone does but won't admit it. Or else they will admit it, and never shut the fuck up about it. They love the crack, in a very aggressive, intimidating way. Oh, how you do in your vain way.
   Go check out Diemonds - Take On The Night. Aw yis, I bet they're happy I gave 'em a mention. I know I am.
   This weeks post was short, I will admit, and I'll be the first to admit that I've had better days. But I'll sign off now as I've run out of ideas of what to say. You know you love me. XOXO. Gossip Girl.