This summer so far has been one of overfilled and spilled drinks, of House of the Rising Sun covers or songs that should have been covers. The insides of the cheap black flats I've been wearing all summer are frequently coated in spilled drinks, so that if one was so inclined they could read the nights of my summer like sticky tree rings. Layers of whiskey from nights at the Cha Cha, thin spreads of beer spilled down a leg by clumsy or enthusiastic boys. Champagne slopped out of glasses during overzealous conversational gesturing. The shoes are sticky and a little gross, but friendly and comfortable too.
Scientists started studying the mechanics of smiling by experimenting with electricity on freshly severed heads. It's always most interesting when my "what if's" turn out to be "rather nots." I'm pretty sure I'm unravelling, which is confusing because I am usually a raveller, but it's funny how when you step out from between the things you're taking care of they all fall together. Like the walls of a lean-to when the roof has gone.
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