Life

You return from a few days in sunny Santa Fe, slightly sunburnt, sore from hiking. Thirteen hours in transit across three timezones. The irritating screams of teething toddlers, the kind that are predisposed to kick seat backs and throw cheerios, still lingering in your mind. You'd expect a certain sense of relief upon returning to a quiet home, but you're more realistic than that.

And just as you're pulling the plug on optimism's last vegetable breath, bracing yourself for flatline...you find your roomie dressed as Courtney Love: The Crackwhore Phase, traipsing about the house in a boys size 12 button down, no pants and enough black eyeshadow to refinish a Hummer. Smashed plates grace the kitchen floor, the shower is filled with candles and knives, roses are ripped of their petals and strewn around the house in patterns you'd liken more to Escher than accident.

And for a moment, life is good. Your friends are the most interesting in the world. You can fly to locales just for a weekend at a moment's notice. You have no reason to set an alarm, no responsibilities. No one utters commonplace trivialities or plays pop music. The unexpected becomes the norm and spontaneity is intrinsic. Life is good. Fleeting, but good. But your life, your life is bloody fantastic!