Sniffing the bouquet of the soul

In this impudent little suburb, people stare at me all the time like real estate agents or child molesters. I feel picked out of a crowd. Today is my birthday, so I went to have a drink with a couple of friends at a boutique beer bar in Denver last night. We sat on the patio, a charade Coloradans maintain even though it has become an obsolete social custom, since instead of its usual progressivist, rationalist sunniness the climate has entered a Romantic or Modernist phase, with the perpetual gloom and mopey dampness of a uterus. With the little residual headache I have from last night, today I feel like a fetus being aborted.

A girl who was there with us asked if dogs are color-blind. That would represent a certain social ideal, but I have my doubts. What about like those racist dogs that have been trained to only bark at Mexicans? She also praised the nudist maniacs who staged some sort of semi-protest bike ride in Boulder the other day in support of their crusade to be allowed to always be on the go with no clothes on or something. With that as their ideal, the residents of a refugee camp are already living in a better world.

On the way home I couldn’t help nodding off in the front seat. My friend who was driving me said I looked like I was watching opera.

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