My playlist feels like a '90s heroin film. I feel like I need to load myself up with necklaces, wearing an army surplus jacket with no shirt underneath, and do whatever I can to make my sunglasses lens-flare into a camera.
Spring's such a fucked up season. How does the modern mind handle the animalistic urge to co-mingle juices and still remain respectable enough to look itself in the eye in the morning? It's like a light turns on and all of the sudden we're all squirting pheromones around and social interaction returns to that endless sizing up and dance of body language. Shit's easy in winter: it's usually just the booze and the rather dainty "teehee" that dagga gives folks, but then the heat and onslaught of serotonin turn that giggle into something a little more throaty.
The plants have their growing pains as the leaves rip out of the branches, and the salty pant of a morning's run whisps down the block from the growing collection of joggers and runners as the Earth's axis tilts a little bit, inch-by-inch, toward the Sun. It's the time of year to hide out with the cool kids, bowls, straws and 40s passed around while the sun peers through the slats of the bleachers. The gods return to life. Ragnarok ends. The birds return. We can smell again, between nectar and bus exhaust. We shed our musty layers and bathe in rain.