D. G. Martin
Hint of Potato
I killed someone.
Wow. That’s a load off my chest. I can’t believe what a relief it is just to type that out and read it on a screen.
I think that’s my problem, too. I don’t kill enough.
I get too attached, too invested. It becomes too painful to let people fall out of my life by my own hand. But I need to do better.
I need to let the red blood flow a bit more freely.
I must kill more often.
Enough of my continuing efforts at self-improvement, and on to vodka. Vodka is one of the most interesting substances out there when you realize that, in the United States anyway, it’s actually not considered, legally speaking, to be vodka if it has a taste of any kind.
That’s right it had to have no taste at all. I mean, water has taste. It tastes like water. But what takes like nothing? Chicken? Is chicken the nothing taste?
Or should we when things have no taste, a problem often cured by salt, by the way, start saying, “This tastes like vodka?”
Nothing. No hint of potato.
Potatoes have taste. They taste like potatoes. Vodka doesn’t, or at least it can’t in order to officially be considered vodka.
Also, what’s up with Rory in Season 6? No, wait, don’t tell me. We still have some binging to do, and I want to enjoy the ride.
I’m fairly certain I don’t want kids, too. It’s okay, though. Neither does my wife. We’re almost at fifteen years and kid free. We want to keep it that way.
At least, that’s what the dream where I brutally beat and behead dozens of demon children tells me.
The brain communicates. It’s up to us to listen.
Message received, brain. Let’s dream about something less controversial for the next drivel, okay?