Summer Cold, Rocky Mountain Taco Bell

Oh, great, I’ve got a FUCKING summer cold. It’s ninety degrees out in the shade, and humid, and at the same time that there’s sweat dripping off my scrotum and out of my butthole into my underpants, which at this point have basically just turned into a bowl of ball and ass-sweat soup, I’ve got snot dripping out of the back of my nasal cavity into my throat, rubbing it as raw as a teenage boy’s pimply dong. Meanwhile, the water is still so cold that there’s a WARNING: HYPOTHERMIA sign up at the beach, where they’re afraid that because of the hot weather people will stay in so long they’ll end up freezing to death, which would in a way be like having a summer cold but on the one hand worse, since you’d be dead, and on the other hand better, because if you were dead you wouldn’t be dealing with a FUCKING summer cold like the one I’m over here dealing with right now. All in all, it reminds me of the time from my childhood, whenever that was, that we were camping in Rocky Mountain National Park, and my parents wanted to hike to the top of Flat Top Mountain, and I was like fuck that, no fucking way, I’m getting up at four in the morning and hauling my ass two hours past tree line and then hoping to get back below it before the afternoon thunderstorms start in and I end up getting struck by lightning like a metal pole in the middle of a meadow, but they really, really, like REALLY wanted to hike to the top of Flat Top Mountain, fuck it if I know why, and so they said that if I did what I had to do so we could hike to the top of Flat Top Mountain they would take me to the Taco Bell in Estes Park and let me order WHATEVER I WANTED even if it meant I was going to spend the rest of the day blowing it out my bunghole. So being that I’d always wanted to order WHATEVER I WANTED at Taco Bell I said fine, I’ll hike to the top of Flat Top Mountain in that case, and goddamn it if we didn’t wake up in the middle of the fucking night and drive our asses over to the trailhead practically going over a cliff on the way and haul our asses to the top of that goddamned MOUNTAIN, and goddamn it if while we were standing on the top taking in the view, which by the way was literally just a view from one mountain of many other mountains, the wind didn’t kick up and blow my mom’s hat off her head, and goddamn it if she didn’t poke me right in the fucking eye reaching for it as it blew off her head and basically blind me, because I SWEAR TO GOD I’ve never been able to see quite right out of that eye again, and goddamn it if we didn’t get back down below tree line before the thunderstorms started in, which definitely would have killed us if they’d caught us scurrying around the rocks like a bunch of fucking marmots, and goddamn it if my parents didn’t take me to the Taco Bell in Estes Park afterwards and say you did it, son, you hiked to the top of Flat Top Mountain and now we’re going to keep to our word and let you order whatever you want, no matter how bad you’re going to gas up the fucking tent later on tonight, and goddamn it if I didn’t order myself an Enchirito and a Bell Beefer, a.k.a. Taco Bell’s answer to the Sloppy Joe, and for dessert a basket of Cinnamon Crispas, which thanks to my international travels, of which there have since then been plenty for reasons as varied as they are sundry, I’ve learned was really just Taco Bell’s proprietary name for a popular Mexican dessert known as a buñuelo, pronounced boon-yoo-ay-loh. As for what any of this actually has to do with my current summer cold, the truth is I DON’T KNOW, but I probably should mention that I’ve left my sister completely out of this story even though she was there, too, and plenty pissed when I puked on her shoes on the way back to where? Rocky Mountain National Park.