They Just Don’t Make Things Like They Used To Part 2

 Dear Doritos,

We accomplished so much in that small, damp room. Daniel kept worrying about these gray puddles that moved across the floor. He didn’t want whatever liquid it was touching his amp. His amp was shit anyway. The puddles moved slow, keeping their shape all the way across the slanted concrete floor. It was probably a mixture of rain water and the tar we used to cover the hole Rich kicked it the wall. It didn’t smell like urine so I was okay with it.

The room was larger than a shed, but smaller than a garage. Rich called us punk rock but Dan called us metal-core. I didn’t care what we called us and loved what we did with all of my being. We made music in that room. It didn’t last. Dan brought this bag of Doritos in one day and our band didn’t last.

“My Doritos are wet” Dan said.

“They can’t be wet, you just opened that bag.”

They were wet. Dan stood there with his bag of soggy Doritos. He looked at us, as if we’d done it.

“You got a bad bag,” Rich said, “sometimes you get a bad bag.”

Dan’s eyes looked wet. The sun came through the hole in the ceiling. It shone right on Dan. He always thought he was better than us. The sun made him look angelic, casting his judgment upon Rich and I sitting in the cold shadows.

Dan started to cry.

“It’s this god damn room,” he said.

“You just got a bad bag,” said Rich.

“It’s this god damn room, and my god damn amp, and now my god damn chips.”

“This is a good room,” I told him, “good things happen here.”

“And now it’s over. You can keep my chips.”

Dan pick up his amp and his tangle of wet cords. The bag of chips was sealed when he brought them in. He just got a bad bag.

Sincerely,

Alex Bullett