Post Title

Yeah, so I went to a hayride...
I feel like a hick. Except in a good way, because the experience was absolutely miserable, and for whatever reason, I think that makes it worth writing about. Yep. I am one sad dude.

IHOP: 3am
by: David Mathis

They say that Rick used to switch with his wife every year taking their son on the hayride,
except every time it was Rick's turn, he would say that he did it last year so that he never even
rode in the back of the truck full of kids with flashlights, running beams over tall trees like
the reflection of ocean waves on the underside of boats.

The problem with fire is that it always seems to warm only one side of a person at at time;
the other side is left out in the cold when roasting marshmallows and getting closer only makes
one side even hotter while the other side still freezes, but my God, when cardboard is thrown
on top of the pit, the flames stand proud for a few minutes before they crouch back down over their work
intimately and leave the fuel to glow with gilded edges and it all looks just like heaven will.

When the wind blows, the chicken houses conspire to light the bellows. They stream currents of rotting
pumpkin spice lattes into the swooning sun like a punch to the gut from a skilled boxer--
just as air leaves the lungs, the houses push product through shipping businesses and everyone,
yes everyone, gasps in horror but its already too late to ignore, except everyone ties and shuffles feet
and pretends like the sun is high overhead and the clouds are white puffy shapes that resemble puppies
or totem poles, or Oprah catching butterflies in the rain except its night and they stumble over someone
who is stargazing, tracing new constellations with a finger which is way, way too fat to only touch one star
at a time and therefore connects clusters of stars to make bundled up balloon formations tied together in
one giant knot called Luna who smiles with big teeth.

Later, piles of pancakes, fat with time lay in hibernation on a table under a spotlight and they're so
very delicious. Each and every one is special, just like a child, but they all taste the same.
The smear of headlights occasionally stutter by, broken by street signs.
Outside, it's just cold enough for the window to mist over,
laden and drooping like sleepy eyelids.