Hey kittens! Hey meerkats! Pretty ladies and wishers of the wild! I'm up for an adventure on this sunny morning. I'm up for pulling on our cherry-print catsuits and curling our hair and leaping over the low door of a waiting convertible. A bottle of Prosecco in one hand and a wicker basket full of dragon fruit and avocado and bubble liquid and crayons, plates buckled in with leather straps and a thermos flask of sangria made from the cheapest gut-rot red. I can't take any more of the leechers and deriders, chiselling clouds into their linings. I am itchy with the idea of fun like the crackle of corn in underwear from a day spent kissing and rolling through a yellow field.
There is a field somewhere with ten sunflowers growing in a glass box, straining their necks against the see-thru ceiling and waiting for the crash. There is a parallel world where you are on day three of a gin-tonic bender, on a sofa in your best knickers, drawing biro tattoos on the arms of strangers. There is, somewhere, behind closed doors and up ladders, a mad scientist trying to irradiate the bones of roses, a pair of lovers washing their feet in a bath of port wine, a masked ball with a spit-roast pig under a chandelier sky. I would like to take some time and find these things, or at least craft our own adventure out of sewn sequins and ankle garlands and open windows and space rockets.
I am sure if we head out there into the big old world there will come a moment when it all goes wrong. We will find ourselves hot-thumbed and without a ride. We will wake up hungover in a field surrounded by our own detritus, mouths tasting foul, eyes too puffy and pissed off to look at one another. In a bar you, or I, will get too drunk and head home with the asshole with the neck tattoo, just for a change, and because he shared his full pack of cigarettes and bought round after round of bourbon. And you, or I, will wake up feeling sordid and empty, like a charm bracelet where all the charms have fallen off so that all that is left is the chain.
But this is no time to be morbid! If this happens, we will be fine, like we are always fine. We will crawl back to each other with bruises beneath our eyes and look hangdog. By the time the sun is high in the sky, all transgressions will be hilarious or forgotten. We will write our own pirate treasure map and cover it with kisses and find presents at every cross. We will bandaid the spots that bleed and we will nap in a field of dandelions until we wake up and everything is fine. And hilarious and happy and ever-after, until the next mishap crawls under our canopy.