My Cardboard Balcony

The Longevity of Spoiled Milk by Belinda Roddie It's not just that it curdles in your throat and becomes its own mutated aberration once it slithers into your stomach. Somehow, the disgusting sour tang has a life span that transcends even your darkest traumas. Your digestive tract will never be the same again. I drank the rotten cow innards the day you moved out because I wanted to feel something hurt me inside in the most asinine of ways. As if your words weren't enough. As if the lingering print of your palm wasn't enough. But of course, if you hadn't packed your bags and flipped me off on the way out the door, I would have done it instead of you. The empty carton fits perfectly between the calluses of my fingers. When I dumped that yellowing white evil that had once graced my cereal bowl in a better life, I saw myself purging a malevolent spirit in dairy form. The flavor sticks with me, of course: It's like glue on my tongue, holding fast

I searched the pockets of my jeans for cash, but all I found was lint and a paper clip from God knows what office job I used to have. So instead of taking the bus home, I had to call my uncle - the great wise boozehound he was - and see if he was sober enough to pick me up. "Pick you up?" he gurgled over the phone. "I thought I gave you bus fare!" "For one trip. It wasn't enough to get me back."