My Cardboard Balcony

Before It Was Cool by Belinda Roddie We don't drink from mason jars - we slurp boxed wine with crazy straws like juice pouches, then squirt the stuff between our teeth in random purple spurts, creating a fountain that stains the cheap kitchen table. Does bragging about that make us as bad as the hipsters, the tight jean'd, beanie'd coffee enthusiasts gentrifying the downtown? Maybe. I just like wine.

Frank peeled potatoes in the kitchen while I cut out newspaper clippings. It was for some sort of art project for Barry. He said his teacher wanted him to find vocabulary words and glue them onto some sort of household object, which would ultimately mutate into some sort of linguistic pun. I found an old broom we didn't use anymore, but Barry's hand still didn't work right since he broke it playing lacrosse, so I was left with the manual work while he perused his vocab list from the corner of the table.