-We The Kings
Today, I had Warheads for the first time in over ten years.
The last time I remember having
them was when we still lived in Farmington Hills, my little kid neighbors and I biking around, pretending to be the Spice Girls (I was always Posh), and running down to the river to see who can fit the most lemon warheads into their mouths. Red nail polish and tingly tongues later, we'd skitter back home in fits of giggles.I hadn't seen them since (and I've looked and looked), so it was crazy when I read that you can find them at Walgreens (where I rarely go), and they were actually there. Same five flavors, same rarity of blue raspberry, same red wrapper for the black cherry. I didn't remember how sour they could get though, or how quickly it passed, but I'm still saving the wrappers although I don't remember why I used to do that. Something about wishes or prizes maybe.
My sister didn't have the fortune of growing up with them, so I gave her one today and recorded it. For the first, initial second, she had the look of oh-this-isn't-so-bad on her face--then shrieking and stiffening and crying entailed. But I told her it would get sweet so it miraculously stayed in her mouth, although she told me she will never dare to eat another one again. Oh well, can't blame her.
Anyway, I've been working on a novelette with my advisor so here's the teaser!
“You Christians are so stiff-necked,” he muttered, bending down to pick up some crushed cups on the floor. “Don’t do nothin’ but sit around like a bunch of prudes.”
“It’s not like that,” I said, annoyed.
“Pretty intolerant bunch.”
“We reach out to as many people as we can.”
“Bet your church is all-Asian though.”
I stared at him. “It isn’t intentional, it just happens—”
“Yeah, well, nothing questionable you do is intentional, eh?” He glanced into a bottle of orange juice and tossed it away; it was still half full. “You know there’s a church in Brooklyn that serves prostitutes and drug dealers. You should try going there.”
“Grandpa! What are you trying to say?”
He pulled in his lower lip and stared up into the ceiling. “Exactly what I mean. Intolerant.” He motioned at the overturned table, the empty bowls, the stained carpet. “Clean that up.” And with a final grunt, he made his way down the hallway, kicking abandoned cups aside before he disappeared completely out of sight.
(PS Things get better.)
