I grew up a fuckin' screw-up. . .

There are not many aromas that I appreciate more than the one you are hit with as you approach an urban convenience store. You know what I'm talking about. It's like the perfect mixture of spilt malt liquor, bum piss, and broken dreams. It gets me every time, and I'm prompted to reminisce of simpler times when slipping a 40 oz. down your pant leg was an everyday thing, and passing around a can of Glade Air Freshener to huff through a rag was a party. The good old days boy. To be a 14 year-old dropout again. Those were the times.