I've made a habit of quitting my habits. Those things that rush me into a single direction oblivious of my one true pulse. They were naught for naught. My vices taught me the difference between strong and weak. Even if the examples were skewed, chemically induced, cuz what isn't?
I was telling a story of ex-pats yesterday. Of being lost in the pitch black of an island. Her and I. Entering a tiny ex-pat bar improbably nestled there in that time of night. A bunch of fat white guys in football jerseys. I asked them for directions to a motel on the beach. And they were vague, cuz they only knew of resorts. At the door, on my way out, I turned and asked, "by the way, who won the Super Bowl today?"
Our car was chased by wild dogs. We drove it across a drawbridge to a castle exterior that turned out to be a bordello with no vacancy. We gave a woman standing on the side of the road a ride to somewhere that got us even more lost. We drove ourselves in circles past empty fortune telling booths. She refused to stay at the one available resort that reminded her of Vegas. So we went all the way back to the first place we were turned away from. But we found a different gate. And she went in and found us a room to stay. A simple room. And like carbon blindly replicating itself in a slurry of ocean swamp, our bodies recreated the beginnings of life, as tired as we were, alive.
"The Saints!" he shouted back
