revived archives

Entry: October 21, 1993 from my ficticious diaries

I found myself sitting at a table in a dingy little restaurant near campus with a soft drink and burger sitting in front of me. Things were hazy as to how I ended up there.

The evening started off with a group of us heading out. A friend of a friend knew somebody in their Econ class who was having a huge, post-midterm party. I remember walking the few blocks to get there…several drinks…and then things became blurry.

Through my alcoholic haze, I could see my friend Jim over by the jukebox, most likely looking for the most annoying song contained within…which he would then select multiple times. His crowning glory was when he found an old Perry Como record in a biker bar’s jukebox a few months prior during the thick of summer. After a mere 15 seconds into the song Winter Wonderland, the bartender yanked the plug.

I turned my attention back to the burger sitting in front of me. Because the table was curiously tilting back and forth, I carefully reached across for the ketchup bottle. I lifted the bun off of my burger and saw that the positioning of the pickles on the patty made it look like my burger was staring up at me.

I poked at it. My mind wasn’t too sharp and thoughts were coming slowly, as if working their way through a thick layer of maple syrup. My burger lay flat upon the plate, staring up at me…and it looked as if it had something to say.

I slowly realized that this was ridiculous…the absurdity of this finally emerging through the molasses swamp that was flooding my brain. Burgers don’t have mouths, I thought, and therefore can’t speak. I was pleased with myself that, even in my current state, I was still able to conger such astute observations. So I carefully gave my burger a ketchup smile.

I placed the bun back on top and lifted the burger to take a bite when I heard someone say “psst.” I looked around to see who was trying to get my attention. Jim was still reviewing the song selections on the jukebox and all the other patrons seemed engaged in their own conversations, paying no mind to me.

“Psst…” I heard again, and glanced down at my burger. Was my meal trying to tell me something? It sure seemed like it was staring at me earlier with those large pickle eyes…and maybe now that it had a mouth it was trying to impart some important information.


“What is it?” I slurred. And as I slowly bent down, resting my ear upon the bun, I could have sworn that I heard my meal whisper these four tiny words to me.

No. Tequila. Ever. Again.