That thing
where you make a Moscow Mule, but use ginger kombucha instead of ginger beer and the bottle erupts all over the counter because you let it ferment a day too long, and you know you’ll regret not wiping it up when it’s a shiny, sticky-dry patch in the morning, and then the last sip smells a little too much like musty balls, which causes giggle fits, especially as you slurp down the dregs and talk yourself out of making another, so you go to bed with that weird, medicinal, buzzed smell/taste in your head, and you can’t figure out why your right eyelid is twitching, and the inside of your head sounds like a conch shell passed around after everybody did a line or two of cocaine off the hostess’ makeup mirror on the coffee table, but there’s no bmmp chh bmmp chh bmmp chh in the background, only the sound of your mate reading My Side Of The Mountain to your daughter in his slightly stilted voice in the next room.
That.
Reality. What a thing.
