Casual Ode to a Fallen Slurpee

A story of love, loss, and remorse.

O Slurpee. Had you known your fate, you may not have let that pasty, potentially eyebrow-less (alas, I did not get a good look at your purveyor) former owner of yours fling you so mercilessly at the black metallic of my car. I hope to never know the deep cut of fear that must have dug through your chilly slushiness as you, unguarded by a seatbelt, writhed in your cupholder home. A passenger in a speeding box of metal and oil, you trembled as your icy consistency melted into a syrupy, red puddle. One must ask the age-old question: is a neon green and sky blue 7.11oz cup a worthy grave for an innocent frozen treat? I think not.

Slurpee, adorned with a transparent plastic top and a long, stroon… or spaw? You tell me. I am weighed down by an anvil of remorse that has lived in my belly since we encountered one another three years ago on Ventura Blvd (between Whitsett and Coldwater… remember? You emerged from the left hand of the man who purchased you onto the side of my vehicle). Perhaps if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to reach my destination, or if your purchaser hadn’t been such an impatient and proud motherfucker, you could have been enjoyed and digested as opposed to experiencing an eternity of the precipitation cycle; asphalt to cloud, sweet, slurpee-y rain, back to asphalt.

Slurpee, you were so fortunate to never know the ache of hostility behind the wheel. For you were always soft- a texture known most famously to teddy bears and cashmere sweaters; never hard in nature, yet stoic and courageous. You showed such enviable valiance in serving as the object unto which a man thrust all of his anger. I do not blame your for his tantrum. His punishment was served in his wasting of a perfectly tantalizing dessert. He will never know those last few sips. And nor will I. Nor will I.