21 March 2018
It’s a bowl of soup kind of day. I had some on hand, Progresso Pot Roast with Country Vegetables. I don’t know what the fuck country vegetables are, but apparently they’re potatoes, carrots and green beans. I hate soup. Guess where I’m sitting now? I’ll give you a hint: I ain’t got a table or a TV in front of me.
After I had the last drop down in my belly, I belched. Who the hell ever belches after eating soup? And you know what that belch tasted like?
Cucumbers. Raw cucumbers, no pickling juice, no pickling spice, just raw cucumbers. There ain’t no fuckin cucumbers in Progresso Pot Roast with Country Vegetables.
I stood up. I smelled battery acid. Like I was standing over a car battery that’s being charged. I made it outside into the wet, cold, fresh snowy air long enough to indulge in a cigarette. The battery acid followed me.
If I make it out of this small room (which has no table) any time before I die of old age or dehydration, whichever comes first, I’m gonna take some Imodium. Two to start, then another after I inevitably return to this prison.
How I hate soup…
Memoirs of an American Asshole 