7-Eleven Food Stores

Elite '08

115

75

Kenny R.

Napa, CA

We started out when the sun was still smiling.
One of the servers was getting off duty at the Bounty Hunter and we were outside the joint drinking an expensive Bourdeaux-style blend that had us buzzing and the pretend-ious sniffing and saying "it's nice".  I was entering the tunnel of Buzzville ...
I called Marco and he said bring a bottle of that and come over.
My girl disappeared with the girl that was willing to draw a tattoo on his arm with a sharpie.
He brought out some books on conspiracies.  The wine was tasting real good and any bootleg of Robert Pollard sounded fine.  I hopped on a bike and jetted down that street.  He yelled out 'that's my neighbor's bike" . . .
Now, I was the hot-rod super star in tight corduroy pants and hot dog side burns.
The street was dark and I knew no fear.
Sonic youth was in my head with drumstick reverb and continuous yes.
I envisioned all of us and all of my nice friends buff funking the crickets in the parlor by the shore.  I called Scott up north and said go ahead.
I passed the phone all around and everyone said hello to her - The nighttime and I were all alone in the whispering trees like 1952 where post-war was real and there was no such thing as global warming or greenhouse prizes.  Bush was a prized possession and throwing rocks at the night water was nice.
Well, that's without better words or some kind of finger to the mouth shushing me -  that's what I was at this point accustomed to... the bastards.
I spread wings and flew... my bicycle and I were then kissing curb and new jeans were getting holed up in the asphalt belly flop.
Trick-or-Treat 1987.  All over again.  7-11 is always the sign of the times on a 2 in the morning thing.  They know why you're here while you're trying to find a bigger platform.  Something to jump on and ride..  A orange light where you can chirmish the autumn.  Barry's the fall guy and we're backseat giggling at the retard who bought the fuckin beer.  Dean's on LSD... leave him in the backseat.. the cop's won't question that.  He wants a sno-cone... he's happy suckin' on M&M's cuz he thinks they're part of the new next test. The nest text...  The tested nemesis .. backed down.. the backspace deleting us towards destiny..  We're talking about tenacious defense.. motherfuckers down ... us.. yeah, you and me.. we're bouncing like basketballs and television is too slow at this point.  How many slurpee's does it take to get motivated?!  Give me a toothbrush and I'm white-washing the apartment complex and laughing while Marco is making Creme Brulee with a bic lighter and packets of sugar from that pie place where they were happy to seat us for just a 75-cent cup of coffee until their sexuality burned and got the waitstaff too excited to participate in order-taking and common practice.   I was bulging with excess but I didn't have the $23.76 in spare change.  So we all screamed and ran across four lanes and found freedom... finally.  Adam's sister looked at me in that way but she still insisted that I sleep on the couch.
"Yelp is currently down for maintenance."
Fuck.. bad timing.  Just when I had a library in my head.

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