The Sandy Hut
It is, I thought to myself, perfectly normal to think and be this way. I had to think that, because if any part of my body caught wind of the chaos raging in my head, I might be dealing with a revolt. My arm might just pop off and find somewhere else to wave around, my skin might choose to find some other frail ego to shelter. It was, then, absolutely necassary that I maintain the belief that everything that was happening was perfectly, completely normal.
I stumble over to the table next to ours and have a screaching conversation with a stranger. The conversation has the tone and inflection of great importance, something like how you might talk about if you should go to war or how to address poverty. It could have been about either of those. I'm not sure what the conversation was about, because immediately afterwards I can no longer recall having had it. I sit next to my friends and ask them, ever so casually, if it might be time for us to leave. I am showered with disdain, as I deserve.
On reflection, that last drink wasn't entirely needed. However, it is the Sandy Hut, and if I walk out of here while making sense to myself I somehow feel robbed...cheated out of the experience.
The Sandy Hut has the feeling of a place that is very much like home at the beginning of the night (ahhh, the Hut, so great to be back)... very much like hot sex during it (I fucking love this place, and I love my friends, and I love this table, and I love this pencil that is in my pocket)...and very much like a horrible head wound by the end (wait...did any of that just happen...where am I?).
I have to love the place, I do. I'm forced to get along with it. It's as if I'm in a marriage with the place. A marriage with children involved, and we're only staying together for the kids so we're going to have to work it out. I don't mind, not really.
Now, if somebody could just tell me where the door is, I'll be on my way.
It is, I thought to myself, perfectly normal to think and be this way. I had to think that, because if any part of my body caught wind of the chaos raging in my head, I might be dealing with a revolt. My arm might just pop off and find somewhere else to wave around, my skin might choose to find some other frail ego to shelter. It was, then, absolutely necassary that I maintain the belief that everything that was happening was perfectly, completely normal.
I stumble over to the table next to ours and have a screaching conversation with a stranger. The conversation has the tone and inflection of great importance, something like how you might talk about if you should go to war or how to address poverty. It could have been about either of those. I'm not sure what the conversation was about, because immediately afterwards I can no longer recall having had it. I sit next to my friends and ask them, ever so casually, if it might be time for us to leave. I am showered with disdain, as I deserve.
On reflection, that last drink wasn't entirely needed. However, it is the Sandy Hut, and if I walk out of here while making sense to myself I somehow feel robbed...cheated out of the experience.
The Sandy Hut has the feeling of a place that is very much like home at the beginning of the night (ahhh, the Hut, so great to be back)... very much like hot sex during it (I fucking love this place, and I love my friends, and I love this table, and I love this pencil that is in my pocket)...and very much like a horrible head wound by the end (wait...did any of that just happen...where am I?).
I have to love the place, I do. I'm forced to get along with it. It's as if I'm in a marriage with the place. A marriage with children involved, and we're only staying together for the kids so we're going to have to work it out. I don't mind, not really.
Now, if somebody could just tell me where the door is, I'll be on my way.
Oh and its just as plausible that the deep conversation you had was with the salt shaker.