Kalah Allen

Fuck you, tweakers! You're the reason I have to drive to the 'Couve to get pseudoephedrine. If you and your ilk hadn't been buying all the goddamn cold medicine in Oregon so you could blow up some barns and enjoy a few really wicked palpitations, I wouldn't be drowning in snot. As I blow out bright green streamers of nose-goo, all I can see is your pockmarked, pale, rotten-toothed faces. I hate you and your broods of deranged children, your paranoid stares in the Plaid Pantry, your horrible vans. But most of all, I hate the fact that my honest, booze-loving friends and I have to sit here and pick crust off our nostrils because you're too fucking good for smack. It's allergy season, my twitchy friends. My roommates hock up things that look like aborted fetuses, and when they sing in the shower, the piercing warble of lung butter hanging from their uvulas is enough to wake me from my Nyquil-induced coma. You had to take our Dayquil, our Sudafed, and our Advil Cold and Sinus, and render them as impotent as Calvin Coolidge in the face of big steel. You don't like historical analogies? I don't like you.—Anonymous