The Anarchist Cookbook. You know you wanted it.
It was right up there with Steal This Book in book stealing numbers which is why it was so hard to track down with it’s tatty paper cover and who-knows-what-all stains. But you got it. You had it for a month of revolutionary chicken farking around with time, and you never even blew anything up. What’s up with that?
You imagine it had more to do with the guys who had already blown up just about everything interesting including a plethora of itty bitty little froglets tied in amphibious helplessness to their stead-fast steeds, otherwise know as, firecrackers.
Be the light, little froggy.
But in high school, you know, things happen and you get all jiggly in your pants trying to figure out what parts of the universe need figuring out today and you page through the Cookbook and you find out that if you go to the gas station at lunch and buy a bottle of Robitussin DM in the green bottle and mix it with a can of 7-up and drink it it might make for a more interesting 6th period. If you were into that sort of thing. Which you most certainly were not, no sir.
They only had the red bottle.
Sick to the stomach, light-headed, gross.
At least you shared.
And when you’re in high school and you have a crush on some stupid guy who really is the worst kind of guy to have a crush on and you nab and gut one of his cigarettes and fill the papers with nutmeg from your friend’s mother’s spice cupboard, know you’re only going to cough and spit and clean nutmeg off the living room carpet.
But that’s the last you’ll see of him. Be grateful.
And later in life when you have a house with snow falling outside of it, a Christmas tree with big, round white bulbs and two little kids making you crazy, remember that the night you met your husband you wore a baseball cap with the word “boy” written across it, that you and your best friend pretended to drink Comet cleanser from a can that was really washed-out and filled with Pixy Stix, and that there’s never really any telling what’s going to happen next.
Tell me, am I wrong?
NOTE: The author does not condone nor suggest the use of Robitussin DM or nutmeg in any other way than as suggested by the manufacturer of the product. Don’t be stupid.