Bourbon

Cindy: Last night I saw a face.
Tom : Did it have a nose?
Cindy : Well... yeah.
Tom : That does sound like a face."

Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

She was planning something big. It was his 25th, after all. It had to be special, memorable. She had, after weeks of thought, arrived at that gift, and now she was wrapping it. 11:16 pm.
He asked her, "What do you want, Mom? Ice cream or Pepsi?" She turned to him and smiled. "Ice cream, thanks." 11:21 pm.
He handed her a bowl, its bottom cold and wet, and a spoon. She glanced at the spoon and looked up at him reproachfully, "This is the spoon I use for my medicine, darling." He stared. She held it out to him. 11:24 pm.
"This is the one I keep for my morning lemon juice..." He frowned and took the spoon back. "Do you want to come and take your own spoon?" he asked? "You know the rules, you've been living here all your life. You must be knowing all of this." "Damn rules! Who makes rules about spoons?" he grumbled. "It's just the way we work. There's a pattern to it." "Well, I didn't know about it," he stated angrily as he walked back. 11:28 pm.
"This is just way beyond me. I mean, come on. How ridiculous is it? Not this spoon, it's for tea. Not that spoon, it's for cereal. There's zilch flexibility here, it's like a god damned convent school! It's just a bloody spoon, it doesn't matter, Mom! Seriously, just loosen up once in a while; it's sickening the way you do that. Just absolutely sickening," and now he was yelling, pointing the spoon 'for tea' at her. 11:33 pm.
He sat up till twelve. A few of his friends called. A cousin. "Happy Birthday!" "Thanks." He waited...till he fell asleep. The next morning, when he woke up, she was already gone. He ate his breakfast - left prepared by her - and threw the refuse into the waste basket, right on top of his neatly - and grandly - wrapped-up gift. 09:18 am.