April swelters.
My shirt kept saying, “Take me off!” and all I could say is, “Do you have protection?” Of course, not all the negotiations that go inside these circuits are as fried as our forecasts of late. I want sun protection factors that could insulate and moisturize my tinted, tipsy, beddable mind. Lights flash, confetti explodes and thousands of unironic green balloons tumble from the cool heavens. Fine. These sorts of fantasies are not that intriguing. But I do anticipate high levels of exposure and indecency any hot minute. Is there a drink that cross-fades this heat to something refreshingly reasonable?
Cold blood beverage.
Art isn’t always pretty. But she drinks and she’s getting there. I wish I had a direct line to my well of craziness. Routinely, I just waddle through the sludge. If you’re looking for allusions about drink addiction, the supply has never been better. There are drinker’s psychology, pharmacology, infomercials, and treatment records, trash novels and vain personal memoirs. If I’ve to look at pop entertainment and the daily news I’d have to take another swig. Yes, everyone I believe, needs a drink. Whenever I’m under the impression that I got my muse pinned down, that’s when she just slips my fingers. Perhaps it’s the dynamics of luck. Or it could very well be the lack of meditations on betrayal and loyalty. Whatever it is, we all do what we can to ease the biting loneliness. For reasons unknown to me, I don’t have a lot of confidence in my fingers anymore. They tremble. Should I raise another glass? What side of the intoxicated fence are you really on? Where do we draw the line? Is sobriety straight through and through? Shaking hands. Losing grip. Tortured drunk typing. Read with caution.
Life gulps down that one fix then looks forward to the next; all I can say is, too much a bittersweet thing is always barely enough.