Your ecstasy.
Your crack.
Your Mexican blue-hair pot grown in your brothers friends friends cousin's backyard in the middle of his mother's prize-winning tomato plants which you smoked through a soda can bong filled with breast milk or whatever you kids are into these days.
You can have your alcohol.
Your beer.
Your wine.
Your shots of tequila poured down throats as some sweaty guy in a seedy bar holds you upside down while blowing a whistle to the staccatoed tune of the roof the roof the roof is on fire in your ear and applies a temporary tattoo on your shoulder of a cross-eyed coyote while drunken short skirted girls scream yea baby.
You can have your desserts.
Your pie.
Your ice cream.
Your death by chocolate quadruple layer cake with drizzled fudge and whipped cream piled as high as the Matterhorn on a chilled plate swirled with caramel served by shirtless men in tight pants who look like Brad Pitts twin before he became Mr. Jolie Nonuts.
Because I have found the answer. I have found utopia. I have found the rainbow pot of gold lucky charm. I have found the answer to world peace and love among all creatures great and small. I have found a savior in a bottle. I have found, this;
I'm going to grind it into a powder and sprinkle it on pancakes.
I'm going to snort it through a straw.
I'm going to marry it.
I'm going to go the fuck home tonight and take it because I have PMS the likes humanity has never seen and if I don't medicate myself into a coma I will crush bunnies and slap orphans and kick the balls of people I love. I will punch unsuspecting necks and gouge innocent eyes and scream obscenities to everyone. I. Will. Hurt. You.
I might be 39 years late to this party but I'm turnin' the mothafucka out.
Oh, and I totally lied about the desserts. You can't have those.
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