The Cotton Bottom: A Short Story

Today I broke out of my igloo (aka my apartment) and headed east through the snow to the little and charming (piece of shit), dive bar that I’ve been dreaming of going to since I was 19, The Cotton Bottom. I met up with my sissy + her friends for a garlic with cheese hamburger. YUM. (I will get to that later.)

Upon my arrival, I walked in proud, with my I.D. in hand, only to be yelled at by one of the cooks. “SHUT THE DOOR,” she barked with a raspy voice only years of chain smoking over a kitchen stove can cause. Embarrassed of being so unobservant as to forget to close the door, I apologized, closed the door, and reluctantly placed my driver’s license back into my wallet. Pushing down the great feelings of sadness that no one even cared to check that I was 21 (#whitegirlproblems), I continued on into the bar.

Walking in to the dark and small space, I was surprised to see that many white trash people on the east part of Holladay… Anyways, I headed over to the combined tables that my sister and her friends were occupying. After insincere hugs and hellos were given, I planted myself in a seat close to my sissy. Moments later, another member of the dinner crew, Justin, came back from the bar and told me he was going to take the seat next to mine. So, being the courteous (unobservant) human that I am, I simply stood up and went to sit in the seat next to my sissy’s. In one fail swoop, I was on the ground. Overwhelming sounds of laughter erupted by all of the fellow patrons, and I realized that my chair had literally been taken from under me.

Other than that, the food was great.

I LOVE YOU,

B

 

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