Big bottle of creemore

I love you big bottle of creemore. There I said it. I love big bottle of creemore. I love an inanimate object, a marketing ploy, an idea. My only solace that I at least have feelings for something cool.

It's not like I love Fresca or Ford cars. I suppose everyone thinks the things they love are cool. That guy proclaiming his love for diet coke with lemon thinks it's cool.

Am I the fool? Is it all about percentages? If 60% of people I know agree that my love for big bottle of creemore is cool then I'm cool? I can be even cooler by ditching my friends who don't agree and finding more friends who love big bottle of creemore.

How does this impact the things I love that aren't cool? The secrets. Things like plucking nose hair until the tears stream down your face.

"What's wrong? Are you crying?"

"Nose hairs."

Back hairs as well, although that sometimes requires a teammate. Picking my nose when it really needs it. That's not cool. Zits and popping them. We all love that though, otherwise you'd see more faces full of bulging white heads instead of sore open wounds with the tops clawed clear off.

Ahh but wait. Maybe the fact I'm able to be open with these nasty habits and the pleasures I take in them somehow makes me cool? It shows confidence. Now if I can only pee my pants in public then I'm clearly leaning towards overconfidence with a mix of lowered intelligence and the ability to sit in my own urine.

I'm not sure how big bottle of creemore feels about me. So cold. I'm now pissed about creemore introducing a normal sized bottle. In the beginning I bought into the story they fed me. Stories work when it comes to marketing. Their spiel about the perfect bottle neck, about some rusted old machine they saved in Italy or Spain to cap the bottles. Nothing but a cash grab. Little bottle of creemore means nothing to me. It's a vessel and nothing more.