When I was eight I got very sick. I got to eat mac n cheese on the couch, and drink chocolate chip milkshakes. Today I felt sick. So I made some mac n cheese, and I sat down on the couch. I wanted the milkshake. I didn't have any chocolate chip ice cream, So I made strawberry. Then I sat at the counter and looked at my mess. The milk was out, The ice cream was uncovered and melting The blender was on its side. It looked very sad. Like it was a Roman village I had just conquered. I killed all the strawberry milkshake children. They had such bright futures until they drowned In a puddle of one percent milk. I discovered I don't like strawberry milkshakes that much. And now I have a mess in the kitchen, My car needs gas, And I smell like cigarettes and self deprivation. And everything is easier when you're eight and your mother cooks you your special sick person dinner.