THE SUNDAY HOPPER HOUR
You know life is becoming unbearable when you check into a homeless shelter with your last bottle of Boucherôn and a friend’s subscription to Netflix. I had to stay outside in Tupelo in the middle of summer without a pottery water bowl from McCartys. She was okay as long as the credit card for her Uber account cleared.
One day of homelessness.
Enough with the in-and-out Hedonic loop of wants and needs and guilts and pleasures. Out with the present paradigm and wheels up in 24 hours to turn this head around. Psychic changes don’t come easy unless you jump start them with a microcode of mushrooms or a peyote ceremony with drumming and a beloved American Indian shaman named Bill.
Bill Murray might make a neat shaman. Bill Burroughs. Not Bill Cosby. Not anymore.
A combination of the Cosby verdict, a star shower on Uranus, too many marigolds and news she might be related to Dennis Hopper sent Esmé on an EMT implosion. When the ambulance and the EMT’s make an appearance, police are sure to follow.
I felt for her. Plopped in her lap without my cosmo helmet to protect me. Purred and ignored her some. Flapped my tail. Stupid. Stupid Stupid. Why do you pity such a fool?
Unlike Mr. T, she didn’t dig for gold, she never hustled her closest friends and blatantly told the truth to anyone who would listen. Her truths were altered by a faulty perception. Her truths were torn asunder as words slurred and memory failed.