Where I am, right now, it’s all sunshine and it’s all heat and it’s all just fine.
Two days ago, I wrote something bad, and I sent it to a publication I sometimes look at, and for a few seconds I felt like an idiot, but now I don’t really care.
Last night, I sat around a grill eating hot dogs with people I enjoy, out in some country hills, wondering what’s in the woods surrounding our heads, and they talked about farming internships and famous farmers and not showering and enemas and the sizes dogs can grow into, and I listened.
Before that, I drank beers shirtless out back of my parent’s house while a stereo played songs I picked. I caught a sunburn and remembered the beach.
The previous night, I ate steak sandwiches and sipped quality bourbons, the types of bourbons bourbon-people like and search for, in a bar — a real, open, operational, crowded bar — while an employee, off-the-clock, talked about different distilleries and American history as it relates to liquor and sweetness, and I’d normally dislike this experience, I’d normally find it annoying or pretentious or wasteful, but at that time I appreciated the enthusiasm and the want to share and that someone who makes $9 an hour has found a way to indulge the finer things, so I spent $100 and didn’t mind.
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