Last time up the mountain, I wrote a bunch of similes and metaphors, just for funsies. Enjoy.
Ireland was resplendent and lush, like the 3rd season of Sons of Anarchy where they just put a green filter over the camera lens.
The fabric he clung to, the only thing keeping him suspended from the cliff’s edge and safe from a long drop and sudden stop, was stretched tight and thin, threatening to give up the fight at any moment. In this moment, these last few breaths, all he could think about was all those yoga pants at the mall that screamed for help with every step, begging for a quick death; limbs that never should have been clad in such material stretching it until the very fibers nigh wrenched apart. But somehow, the pants held. Would the fabric that his life now depended on?
In the summer, the smoke in the north valley hangs around like an STD after a night of bad decisions.
The entire gallon of milk landed flat-bottomed on the kitchen floor, the transfer of motion sending a stream of milk directly up, delivering a dairy bukkake straight to my face.
Much like a dinosaur’s friends, all my teeth are dead.
These fries are so salty, they taste like the ocean as it tries to murder you with its waves.
These tweens are so happy and innocent, budding desert roses reaching for the sun, blissfully unaware of the rest of the desert waiting to steal their water, vitality and beauty as soon as they peak.