So, I'm in the grocery store the other day. I went in to buy a tomato. Just one tomato. I go to the produce section where I like to squeeze the fruit. Now I'm not talking, picky old lady squeezing the fruit. I'm talking, choke that fucker grimace and grunt until people are staring and your wife slaps your hand and makes you go stand in the canned goods section until she realizes you are rolling Baked Beans under peoples feet and security is about to be called, kinda squeeze.
So I'm eyeing this melon and remember that a couple weeks ago, an old friend mis- reminisced an incident where I fucked a melon back in high school. She thought it was me, but it was really a couple of my friends who had done it.
I feel incredibly sad. What was wrong with me? Why hadn't I fucked that melon? I could have, but I didn't. Now it's too late. I can't copy two fucktard punk rock kids filled with 8 hits of acid 20 years later. At the time, I just sat there trying to feel up one of their girlfriends under the table while choking back the bourbon vomit; just too uptight for cantaloupe love. I'll go to my grave knowing that I never fucked that mellon.
My Company
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