Sometimes, when posed with questions that come in sets of threes, wrapped up in a dusty jacket *laughs in quirks and idiosyncrasies*, you don't always get the important points across. Like, your inherent animosity towards watery ketchup.
No,no. Not ketchup that's diluted. But when you turn over a bottle of Heinz and squeeze so your chicken nuggets have a companion. And instead of ketchup coming out, friggen nIaGrA fAlLs comes rushing out of the bottle. Maid of the Mist? More like my-chicken-nuggets-are-now-soggy!-erm, of the Mist. The whole dang NILE exits from your bottle of ketchup, instead of, well, KETCHUP. The Mississippi River comes flowing out. The, the *insert the urgent searching of names of other famous bodies of water*.
When Vanessa from art class broodily tells me that I have never experienced true sadness, I'd like to yeet my ketchup at her. Like YES. I actually HAVE. In the form of watery ketchup that I should have shook before using. Said water mixes with my tears, as I mourn the perfect meal that could have been experienced.
No bottles of ketchup or Vanessas have been harmed in the making of this piece. Only my emotional health.
y'know some people call ketchup catsup?
like a cat... that's... up.
*friend's pet cat inches away fearfully*