Let’s take drugs this morning! To flow, to flow, the coffee burbling, the Capri Sun and Eggos and Ibuprofen: "Dad, which is better, a cat or a shark?" Well, that depends on your needs, dear—will you grow to leap out of bed or curl like a sodden tie knot beneath the paperwork of the blankets or will you pretend to be asleep to listen? Look, son, there goes a coyote limping through the backyard. Clearly a thousand years old and has three legs so think about that when you ask me, "Dad, could the road in front of the house just burst in flames?" For example, the packing of the lunchbox: Pringles, Oreos, some baby carrots (yes, a vegetable!), and I keep hearing the ticking of a two-shot bottle of Jägermeister secreted beneath my brown socks. (Used socks, gifted by a dead man’s daughter. The last time I wore brown socks was never.) Don’t grow up, you fools; because every day is a lifetime out there in the low sky and poorly mown yard…Mown? That’s ambitious. Twisting blades and dandelion talons that resemble the historical times the domestic and religious and judicial become truly indistinguishable….). What does that mean, dad? Just hug me. You’re not too old to embrace, not too cool or awkward or just miserably insightful. Hug me. And go ahead and grab that warming beer I left atop your fairy doll house. (Dad, Why didn’t the fairies come last night and swim in the tiny pool and eat the Cheetos? You said they would!) The beer, the beer, give a minute, you beauties. I said that? Well, now, just give me a little minute, and they will.