Honestly, I don’t even care what we do tonight. We could go out and get drinks, or grab a bottle of wine and stay in. We could check out that new Ethiopian place we’ve been meaning to try, or just swing by that Mexican place by the river. We could order in Chinese. We could get Italian on the patio. We could pound down a two-gallon bucket of tzatziki sauce in the back of my Honda Civic. Burgers. Oatmeal. Seriously, it’s whatever.
Do you want to see a movie? We could sit back and browse Netflix. We could curl up on the couch with Amazon Prime. We could hook your truck up to a RedBox and haul it wildly across town and recreate the Die Hard scene where Bruce Willis hooks his truck up to a RedBox and hauls it wildly across town until he gets tired and goes to bed. I also have Hulu and FilmStruck and Crackle, but no, I do not have an opinion. Keep in mind, these are only simultaneously vague and highly-specific suggestions I feel lukewarmly about.
I want to drink a little tonight but only if you want to, too, and if you don’t then me neither, baby; I already have my Reinstate the Nineteenth Amendment half sleeve inked and a rally scheduled outside the statehouse tomorrow for 9 a.m. with 4,000 “Going” responses already logged on Facebook. Whiskey’s cool, I don’t even need a mixer. Should I pick up some Diet Coke or something while I’m at the store? I am an emotional ghost. I was voted least opinioned in a class of 500 shrugging worms.
I’m down to clown. I’m down to drown. I’m up for anything and everything or nothing or something or The Theory of Everything if you think we can make the Eddie Redmayne Festival that’s playing downtime in time. There are three arts festivals in Uptown this weekend, but I am not suggesting that we go to any of them. I am a cognitive ascetic. My will is a feather and the night is a wind. I am the one exception to the stimulus-response question on the ACT.
We could take a walk on the beach or a jog in the park. We could start a garden on the neighbor’s rooftop and learn how to plow. We could climb into a canoe with blindfolds on and test Mother Nature’s rough hand. We could drive to my dead grandmother’s house in Wisconsin and UberEats McDonald’s. I am the husk of headstrong. When I was 8 years old, I was sprayed with an industrial grade fire hose and responded “okay.”
Okay, but when was the last time we sat down and talked? You know—really hashed it out. Told each other everything, no barriers. Just honesty. Love. Connection. Isn’t that an activity in itself? Why go do “anything” when we have our own world, our own universe, right here. And also when’s the last time we had wings?