I am so vain, that after I have broken a good man’s heart and smoked half a bowl of weed, I am dazzled by the irony of strolling through frosty Lincoln Park at midnight while my college friend Safiya bellows operatic numbers beside me like a human gramophone. We are pretentious Northwestern students, high and mighty, reckless and ignorant and just a little bit funny. This is a scene in a movie, I think. It’s beautiful and compelling because we’re loony fucks and we’re moving like cardboard props on wheels through the city like we’re the last people alive in the world. We could walk on forever as the camera pans out over the silken, faux-foliage canopy of the stage and paper snowflakes drip down from imaginary wires. I will never forget this, I think to myself. I will always remember the way the lake looked—glassy, thick with sand and blue-grey like the film that grows over old blind eyes, the ducks sitting motionless on the waves, the wind at the end of the pier, breathing fire into my lungs, exhaling smoke, my face freezing, heart burning, Chicago glaring.
Like the effects of THC, guilt creeps on me like silent serpents from the sea.
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