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[For Cole]
Apr. 30th, 2016 04:10 pmRick's been thinking about creation. Being and making things be. It sounds deeper than it really is -- Rick is thinking about building. Some think about building a future, a better mousetrap, the road to paradise.
Rick is thinking about creating to stave off boredom. He has a subterranean lair, a (somewhat) booming cable business, and enough fermented juices to survive any unforeseen prohibition. He's got machines answering phones, servicing his ship, making other machines. He's got a robot that flushes his toilet, for crying out loud, he doesn't need any more fucking robots.
And yet there he crouches, digging shoulder-deep into the trash heap below him. Sometimes his arm emerges, he examines his treasure, and often throws it back. Every once in a great while, something passes Rick's rigerous, gascious inspection and he hucks it in to the wheelbarrow that waits at the bottom of the pile. It looks pink because it is, and it looks like it has a girl's name painted on it because it does. Probably he stole it from a child, but she hadn't been smart enough to look after her things, and one man's trash dot, dot, dot, right Morty?
Morty. Rick burps his displeasure. Thinking about his family means he's not maintaining a steady enough stream of alcohol into his system, so maybe it's time to go home.
Rick's arm emerges holding a closed, half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Rick sits and pops the cap off. Maybe he'll chill for a little longer.
Rick is thinking about creating to stave off boredom. He has a subterranean lair, a (somewhat) booming cable business, and enough fermented juices to survive any unforeseen prohibition. He's got machines answering phones, servicing his ship, making other machines. He's got a robot that flushes his toilet, for crying out loud, he doesn't need any more fucking robots.
And yet there he crouches, digging shoulder-deep into the trash heap below him. Sometimes his arm emerges, he examines his treasure, and often throws it back. Every once in a great while, something passes Rick's rigerous, gascious inspection and he hucks it in to the wheelbarrow that waits at the bottom of the pile. It looks pink because it is, and it looks like it has a girl's name painted on it because it does. Probably he stole it from a child, but she hadn't been smart enough to look after her things, and one man's trash dot, dot, dot, right Morty?
Morty. Rick burps his displeasure. Thinking about his family means he's not maintaining a steady enough stream of alcohol into his system, so maybe it's time to go home.
Rick's arm emerges holding a closed, half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. Rick sits and pops the cap off. Maybe he'll chill for a little longer.
