by Russell Linton

Created on: January 14, 2009

How to Cure Any Enjoyment of
the Taste, Smell or Sight of Cinnamon

I was on a merry go round. You know, the kind they used to have at parks, but now they seem to have banned due to some obscene notion of "saving the children" because they were too dangerous. That kind where you would hop on and your buddy (or better yet your merciless older brother) would take hold of and run as fast as they possibly could. You'd laugh and scream, part out of the exhilaration and part out of a very real fear of slipping off and letting the centrifugal force toss you into the parking lot.

"Stop!" you'd say.

Your merciless older brother would respond by running faster. So fast they'd fall to their knees and be forced to try to maintain the sickening speed by grabbing hold of the bars as they whizzed by and slinging them like an angry monkey.

"Stop!" I say out loud. To no one in particular the house is empty.

It's just not stopping. I caution a peek through scrunched up eyelids. There's my older brother or in this case a bottle of Cinnamon Schnapps. He spins around the room in a blur. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut as I try to keep my stomach from flying off the couch I'm lying on.

It's such a prissy thing to get so completely wasted on as well. I feel like my manhood is being assaulted just telling people about it. I didn't down a bottle of Wild Turkey, get in a bar fight, and wake up in an alley with my battle scars and a nice manly hangover. I didn't consume a few too many "shaken not stirred" drinks as I was riding a monster streak at some high end Casino.

No, I drank Cinnamon Schnapps. Most of a whole bottle in fact. At a party. A party that nobody of consequence showed up to except the girl I invited. A girl that went home with my best friend because I was too damn drunk to drive her. (Of course, real drunken binges, unlike the lies you see on television, don't completely wipe your memory. I still recall how my friend told me that this particular girl was VERY grateful for the ride home. To this day, he tells me he played the "bros before hos" card that night. To this day, I think he's a complete and total liar.)

Those revelations of the utter humiliation of the situation will come later. At the moment, lying on that couch, the only thing really going through my mind as I caution another peek is who in the name of all that is holy invented the ceiling fan? The whirling, twirling, ceiling fan. I want to find them and beat them to a pulp. Or at least expel my schnapps on

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