Continued: I look at the pizza and think of my first hamburger at McDonald's. I was four or five years old, and it was outside under one of those metal umbrellas you'd straddle the leaf stool of that projected out from the main post: that hard little red cap of a seat. My mother unwrapped the crinkly wrapping of the burger and the scent hit me right away: a stale breaded smell that turned into sugared catsup then the sting of relish. That was before you even took a bite. She sat down with her iced tea and lit a Kool King. Her exhale enveloped my head for a moment before it passed on like a storm dispersing through the five or six families around us: category 4,3,2, nothing. I turned my head to watch it and caught a glimpse of the kids who were playing inside the plastic burger balancing atop the single metal ladder. How it never fell over with all those fat little kids inside there I could never fathom. I faced my burger again. I'd watched all the commercials so I knew I had to bite into it slowly, almost smiling, then look up at my mother as I pulled my mouth away from it slowly, letting the sun hit my eyes almost directly so she could see the sparkle that the burger created in me. I tried to assure each step carefully, but the relish leaked onto my fingers and the bite I took had too much catsup on my side of the burger so I winced and coughed and that's when the bun shot part of the way out of my nose. My mother, cigarette balancing between her lips, a few fries in hand, flipped out her free hand and caught the breaded snot rocket and threw it behind her barely missing a toddler's head running by before it safely hit the ground. Then she laughed. My mother always laughed at any faux pas. Anything out of the box was a reason to throw her head back and exhale through the side of her pierced lips a spastic stream of smoke. I looked behind me again wanting to know if the kids in the plastic burger had seen my burger bugger. They hadn't. I looked at that burger again, lifted my head shamefully toward my mother and bravely conjured, "I'm not hungry. Can I go play?".

joshbrolinさん(@joshbrolin)が投稿した動画 -

ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 9月11日 06時42分


Continued:
I look at the pizza and think of my first hamburger at McDonald's. I was four or five years old, and it was outside under one of those metal umbrellas you'd straddle the leaf stool of that projected out from the main post: that hard little red cap of a seat. My mother unwrapped the crinkly wrapping of the burger and the scent hit me right away: a stale breaded smell that turned into sugared catsup then the sting of relish. That was before you even took a bite. She sat down with her iced tea and lit a Kool King. Her exhale enveloped my head for a moment before it passed on like a storm dispersing through the five or six families around us: category 4,3,2, nothing. I turned my head to watch it and caught a glimpse of the kids who were playing inside the plastic burger balancing atop the single metal ladder. How it never fell over with all those fat little kids inside there I could never fathom. I faced my burger again. I'd watched all the commercials so I knew I had to bite into it slowly, almost smiling, then look up at my mother as I pulled my mouth away from it slowly, letting the sun hit my eyes almost directly so she could see the sparkle that the burger created in me. I tried to assure each step carefully, but the relish leaked onto my fingers and the bite I took had too much catsup on my side of the burger so I winced and coughed and that's when the bun shot part of the way out of my nose. My mother, cigarette balancing between her lips, a few fries in hand, flipped out her free hand and caught the breaded snot rocket and threw it behind her barely missing a toddler's head running by before it safely hit the ground. Then she laughed. My mother always laughed at any faux pas. Anything out of the box was a reason to throw her head back and exhale through the side of her pierced lips a spastic stream of smoke. I looked behind me again wanting to know if the kids in the plastic burger had seen my burger bugger. They hadn't. I looked at that burger again, lifted my head shamefully toward my mother and bravely conjured, "I'm not hungry. Can I go play?".


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