Drunkenness

The third millennium since the birth of Christ approaches from right around the corner, but what’s there to be excited about? The future, ostensibly. And yet, what awaits us in the future? Every four years, on leap years, if we simplify matters by appealing to the Julian calendar, we can tune into the Summer Olympics — will they ever go to Beijing, or return to Berlin? — or maybe follow another American presidential election. In the years between, if we’re not fans of the Winter Olympics or the FIFA World Cup, we mostly look forward to smaller milestones like advancing to the next stage of our so-called education, finding a new gig, or falling in and out of love. Every year brings at least one singing of the birthday song and of Auld Lang Syne, and an assortment of carols and hymns according to our beliefs in particular sky people. As we get older, the list of anniversaries to celebrate or commemorate morphs as we meet, remember, abandon, and forget people.  And while we wait for those oh-so-important days, we experience our shares of Monday mornings and Friday evenings along with other working adults, slinking in and out of our restless weekend repose. At the start of each day, we wake; at the end of each day, we sleep. There’s a grim inevitability that lies beyond this expected pattern, but we ignore it for the sake of our own sanity. It’s okay if things stay like this forever, we announce through our quotidian actions. But even that plea for a boring existence cannot be granted by the prosecutors and judges of our wasted promise, for things never remain boring. Ups and downs come and go, from either our own doing or from chance — assuming either exists after the physicists have their way. It’s not like there’s a real emergency switch we can use to stop the ride and ask for help; rather, the only way off is ten stories below the nearest balcony, one cut along a pulsating artery.  But let’s face it, if we weren’t brave enough to do it before, we’ll probably never do it.

So, in the end, what does the future bring? Motion sickness and vertigo, in return for cheap thrills and a well-titillated fear of death. The metal handlebar, cold and impersonal to the touch, is where I’ll hold on for dear life. And with you screaming your head off right by my side, I feel like I might be able to have some fun, too.