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“You know, you never truly get over the first pucker of your nips when that mountain air hits you,”
Ahhh, parents, aren’t they fun?
And I mean that, because this town and I . . . we have history. Sordid history. Embarrassing history. The kind of history that has kept me away for ten years.
“An honor to take care of a relative who has provided you with many wonderful memories throughout your young years. This is the circle of life, Storee. They take care of us while we navigate life at a young age, and when they become old and feeble, it’s our turn to repay them.”
If it were me writing this story, I would have given it at least a week of built-up tension and anticipation. Seems like the person in charge doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing.
“I don’t know, Connor, why does this town play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ year-round?” Classic Storee. Sweet persona. Charismatic. Beautiful smile that masks the person she is on the inside. She questions. She challenges. She drives me fucking mad. “Because they like the song,” I answer. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” “It is when poor grandma is getting massacred every day of the year. Maybe we give her a break.”
Seems like Aunt Cindy chose violence today.
Max takes a step back, shielding his eyes. “What the hell are you doing?” “Showing you my jolliness.” “Well, fuck, stop. It’s terrifying.”
Immediately I can feel hairs sprout from under my nose, my armpits . . . and my chest. The potency of ginger has instantly yeti-fied me. You know that term hair of the dog? Well, this drink embodies that.
“It was startling. I gasped when I witnessed her rise, like an erection sprung right from a pair of tighty-whities.”
“That’s not what the drool from the corner of your mouth is telling me.”
“If you allow fear to take over your actions, then you’re never going to accomplish anything.”
“A gentleman can hold the door open for you . . . and slap your fine ass when you beg for it.”
