red pills found behind the sofa cushions, analepsis 16
In this, the “year of action,” a certain pea-coated dolphin friend of mine — who I must say has been given to drastic mood swings of late, something which is so completely out of character with him as to be sometimes almost physically jarring to me — showed up tonight unannounced with rare-steak Pho and a bottle of plum wine, over which we shared a pleasant evening of idle chit chat, punctuated by an unspoken (but uncomfortably mutual) dancing around the subject of current events and politics.
Turns out he’s recently taken up yoga and traded in his armored black Suburban for a two-seater BMW Z4 roadster with 7-speed Steptronic sport transmission and double clutch. That, and he got himself a lightly frosted body wave. And some skinny jeans.
I hadn’t the heart to tell him that not a bit of it was working for him. I mean, not one single bit. But I was able to choke down the plum wine without letting on my distaste for the vile stuff — which, barely chilled, is a lot like drinking the sweat wrung from a pair of tube socks worn by an especially active strawberry Daiquiri.
If one can even conceive of such a thing.