We all start out as swimmers. Hey hey hey hey hey hey hey why hey hey look: There are so many drinks in our future that my memory of what has not happened yet is already erased. Swimming in them, in the drink. Glug. Gluglug.
Swim when the sky is gray and snoring. Drink when she wants to be missed even though she is not gone. Her face is a puddle filled with rain drops and I am always happy to still be able to be astonished like when I made a vegetarian watch me eat a liverwurst sandwich. I drizzled a zagzig line of mustard teeth on it to make it look pretty at three in the morning. But how do we explain Venus fly traps? It is not right. I said mmmmmmm. This makes no sense. I have no conclusion.
The conclusions of the night are not as good as the questions. Do skunks really drink that much? Are clams really that happy? Are there many more ants in the world than humans? Yes. Not even close. Quadrillions of ants. And I bet they do not give a shit what we do.
“I love it when you have conversations with yourself with me,” she says and I say, “I love it when free-market capitalists complain about not getting what they deserve.”
“Deserve” is an illusion. One of the acts of becoming an adult: Letting go of the illusions. And better still: Just letting go. It usually happens well past when one physically becomes an adult, especially when the illusionist has a history of abuse and is incredibly smart. An incredibly smart person constructs elaborate self-imprisonment and forgets that the door is not locked.
Let go and delight in drink. Glug. Take a swim in a river and let go. Glug. This is not love, this is affliction. Let us talk again soon and make more mantras.