It’s Spring, and I’m drunk with the possibility of plants surviving the winter and popping up in my garden. I swoon at the possibility of seeds I plant growing up into lush leaves and succulent roots and fruits. I dream of my garden as I nurture it with manure and pull the weeds to prepare for the season.
It’s Spring, and I’m drunk with the possibility of getting my novel published. I send it to publishers and agents I haven’t sent it to before, envisioning the book’s acknowledgement page, and hoping beyond my experience of rejections. The thought of being published makes me tipsy.
It’s Spring, and I’m drunk with the possibility of finding my muse again, the inebriation of ludus, the joy of enjoying the energy of growth. My drunkenness makes me giggle, which makes people look at me sometimes.
In the words of Baudelaire, one should always be drunk.
Words Like Me 