Soft Parade

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Today she said she’d rather feel too much than nothing at all.
She said it twice.
Today she said she’d rather feel too much than nothing at all.
This week I picked up my first crafted six pack of craft beers. It’s once per month and if the math stands true I’ll receive one more.
The first was called Contemplation and it tasted like all the days I spent on the docks, floating down the Huron. I think the name was a poor choice.
I don’t know if I’ll jump in there again but now I can feel myself submerging; water is dripping down my face. Streaming past my nose, stopping mid check, just to drop again.
The second was a Toasted Lager and there’s nothing more or exceptional to say about that.
A Wednesday night of beers.
Nights spent overhearing Facetimes to California. Someone is learning to play C. Or was it D?
Soon someone will emerge from a bedroom an exclaim that she’s got it: she’ll move to Montana. She remembers that happiness is better when shared and shakes her head walking back to the second door on the right.
We’re trying to harmonize to “Motion Sickness” but surrender to our unfiltered sounds.
We ask what’s so funny and we’re told her friend now refers to us as the Organics. As in “How are the Organics doing?”
I’m still trying to figure out what part hysterical and what part absurd that is.
There was a Dry Stout, too, but I gave that one away and instinctively took up a Soft Parade.
I said that one was my favorite. This was the six pack I wanted. A six pack of Soft Parades:
a six pack all under the same roof — a six pack of women who exude even when they make oatmeal.
I was allowed to check off one type of beer I didn’t want in the pack
I think I had a red bow in my hair that day; I put my X on IPA and felt my foul.
I want a six pack of the pink lights that line the living room couch.
Last year we sat in aisle 4 and swapped out the multi-color lights until we made a box of all pink.
A crafted pack.
This fall they no longer lit and so we did it again once more.
Soft Parade glows pink and the Huron River streams down my cheek.


Natalie Brennan

Editor-in-Chief, What the F Magazine


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