Last summer for my birthday, Kristin (she's from Iceland, to help explain)(also, thanks again Miss B, for serious) brought a pineapple with her for my Actual Birthday. (We'd had a party for the House of Roebling already, themed: Great Gatsby Devolving into Lord of the Flies.) But I digress...
Sitting at the bar at Schiller's, drinking many a drink provided by kind and supportive bartenders, Pineappio came to life. In something of a Frankenstein spirit, said bartenders let me stick cucumber slices and cherries for eyes, and an apple slice for a mouth, into our cradled-as-baby tropical fruit. He was so expressive! Turning the cherry stems evoked such mood, it was surprising - yet...beautiful.
All night he accompanied us. We loved him. He was Ours.
Right up until I got home and realized he wasn't with us, and we were too drunk to realize we'd simply left him at the last bar. Two blocks from home.
O! Pineappio! I didn't love you once. I love you still.
3 comments:
Don't worry. I think he's on the child-pageant circuit now!
Pineappio is FIERCE!
Wait a minute! You mean pineapple molestors are getting to sit there and OGGLE my little man?!
He must've forged my signature (again). I so did not give my consent.
Oh, hubris.
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