I’d pretend my companion was some great love, and we were meeting years later in some NYC art gallery, remembering our forgotten love and reminiscing on those good times long ago. For years my companion was my high school crush. Ooh, how I loved him, that luscious blond hair and those sparkling blue eyes.
I haven’t had many imaginary conversations lately. Other than when I’ve worked myself into a senseless rage, I tend to be pretty distracted with work and life and all that bullshit.
So, tonight I’m half-drunk…or, maybe three-quarter’s drunk…and I’m sitting here: having a conversation with a picture. A color printer printed picture. It’s taped on my wall, and quite wrinkly. And quite cute. But I’m not only conversing with that picture. No, I’m dividing my audience between the one wrinkly print out and the other framed picture from years ago. And boy am I conversing. I’m really updating these pictures on all that fucking shit that went down this week, and beyond! This conversation is really hitting that deepest note that conversations so seldomly touch.
And that’s that. A good conversation with a photo or two. Good times, yo.