||[Oct. 18th, 2004|11:37 am]
|||||Refused - Poetry Written In Gasoline||]|
I wake up this morning with the thought of making myself a nice breakfast. So, I wander into the kitchen, and become befuddled- what's this sickly-smelling liquid covering the kitchen counter? And what's that brown shit all over the ceiling? Then, I notice a half-empty wine bottle, standing upright, with its cap lying next to it, covered in the brown, quasi-fermented goop that was Heath's grand apple-cider experiment.
Now, I ain't no chemist, but apparently, fermentation creates a lot of gas- which was apparently enough to pop the cork and spray vaguely alcoholic apple chunks all over the kitchen. The ceiling looks like someone blew their brains out next to it, and there's smelly brownish-black goo everywhere that smells like a cross between Pacific Street's alleyways and apple pie. I think I'm gonna go clean that shit up right now.
Is it any wonder that the words "goddamnit, Heath!" are the most oft-repeated phrase in our house?