I used to drink my dinner milk like a college student chugging beer.
My Father always made me finish everything on my plate, including
my milk. And so, with the exponentially intensifying sensation
warning me that my time playing video games may be limited to
no more than a few more hours after dinner, and one hour prior to
bed time (nightmares), I cocked my head back, swallowed
the calcium of my youth in a mere three gulps, asked to be excused
from the table, where upon I received a stare; those eyes
that could kill cattle if they needed, and I darted into the living room,
to a spot two feet away from the television, picked up my controller,
and sunk into a world that was outside of my physical self, and inside
of those dream-like walls; thoughts, my vacationing location: space
outside time and materials, labor, oxygen, relativity and society.
I guess you could say that I indulged milk, or maybe its slickness.
