I am at the cusp of food-coma delirium, about to topple over into the wonder and amusement of a wide-eyed daydream made possible by the all too intoxicating vices of the dining hall, endless chai lattes, and, lest we forget, that magical secret ingredient, birthday hashish.
The shades had rather ominously pulled themselves a distant fifteen minutes ago and there's still a slice of honeydew and half a chai latte set on the table, tempting my digestive tract. They'll be acquainted soon enough. But not yet. Iggy Pop's droning in my ear at the perpetual Man vs. Food stare-down. It's shaking and rousing and in a determined reach the time had come for Mr. Chai to meet Mr. Stomach Enzyme along with his wife and immediate family, The Stomach Enzymes. In a word, they're digestive, in it's most literal form no less.
Why can't every girl speak with the voice of Dusty Springfield? It would make finding love such a simple assignment.
But alas, they can't all be crooners can they. It would strip the beauty right out. And then what would I have to fall for, hmm? I'm about due, and I do love the fall so. The climbing back out not so much, but the fall definitely has its moments. The breathless feeling, the weightlessness. Maybe it's too much. Too exhilarating, the rush, because I always seem to forget to pull the parachute. The climb up always hurts just a little (or a lot) bit more, when that cord's never pulled. That first touch of ground could be your last, and something's definitely broken.
But I'm not like them.
I can pretend.
