So she said, 'Have I got a little story for you'
The two-litre bottle of Sprite warned me about this beforehand -- I wouldn't listen, of course. Who'd listen to a Sprite anyway? They're a pathetic and cowardly bunch, looking to take advantage of me whenever they see fit. And now that they see my final moments of sanity come crashing to the pavement like a freefalling vault, they act like hyenas preying on an unsuspecting victim. I am unsuspecting no more. All the trickeries in the world wouldn't fool me into thinking that the worst has yet to come. The worst thing in my life has already passed me by, and it has been with me for years now, mercifully killing me like a mosquito would to a stout bovine. The bottle stares at me with its transparent, green look, and I fear it has lead me to think that it may be right. What's worse than finding out that your life has more drastic consequences to undone actions than actual rewards itself? That is a question that fails to spark any powder in my mind, a ruthless decay of the long-forgotten. From a distance, I knew the Kamala wine bottle is worried about the Sprite's unprecedented prophecies. It would sooner have it consumed than be involved in its lunacy. Wines are known to be the wisest of all types of liquid. Their wisdom grows with their age, and like an unusual story of creation, their longevities are known to be in reverse -- similar to the curious case of Benjamin Button. This particular bottle I have with me, although already three-fourths empty, whispers to me in a way a grandmother would to her grandchild. She protects me from all sorts of harm despite her fragilities and weak senses -- and due to that alone I love this bottle unconditionally and will risk even my own life to equally safeguard her from anything that may come to oppose her. The Sprite has nothing against the Kamala. They are of totally different leagues. One is juvenile, harmful and acidic while the other is kind, smooth, soulful and well-respected. While the former continues to stare at me endlessly, I try to ignore it and settle down to my own bed comfortably, minding my own business as I should have been doing in the first place. Then I remember the other twin bottle of Sprite laying in the sofa untouched and lonely, weeping from its head and making a total mess out of the seats. It infuriates me to think I have given these ungrateful shits a place to call home, and yet I do not regret doing so in the name of love. Well actually, it just started with a minor infatuation that grew out of proportion. It turns out that all they really see from me is a broken man of despair, which, for the most part, I agree with them. Although I may seem broken and unhappy and desperate, I am proud to say that I am not depressed. In fact, I've never been depressed at all in my whole life. Sadness is sometimes borne out of boredom, which is, in fact, my own case, but it is not something that grabs me by my nutshell. Friends still tend to my frail condition. Last week I was acquainted with a Betty Page-esque sequin jacket that I have grown attached to recently. We've been seeing a lot frequently, going out to small walks at the park or cycling anywhere in the randomly similar-looking streets of London. It was always there to see the small goodness of the tragedy. Even then she would accept me for what I am despite its posh origins. I am a dirtbag unworthy of such a tremendously popular treasure. I suppose not even the hipsters from the Shoreditch area are able to comply with such an amazing specimen as this acquaintance of mine, and our relationship have only just began. Despite all of that, I am saddened for having noticed seeing this wonderful thing rapidly aging in my own company. For what it's worth there is no worth, I am clearly unworthy. I am now left with a lame Sprite telling me my demise, standing beside me and knowing fully well that it has a role to play in my own deathwish theatorama.