Life is the wrong kind of orgy. Where it should be a festival of all the things that make us love the ability to sense the things around us, we are more often reminded of the things that do not futher our dreams. And so we appeal to the orgy of liquor.
p.s. I'm drunk.
We structure our ideals: what a man or woman should be, their long-term goals, their musical taste, how tall they are, eating habits, what color hair they have, their belief in God (or lack thereof), how often they drink, if they drink at all, and how many children they may want or have, and if their life path could provide the proper happiness. We hold these standards in our pocket, like a constantly squirming lizard, always there to remind us to look beyond the shakey eyes of the person sitting across the table, past their own uncertainty, and to take each gesture or word as a building block to the creation, or detraction, of our ideal.
And then they smile and we're suddenly more aware of their eye color, or the lilt in their voice.
Maybe the way their cheek would fit in the palm of our hand, or the way their hair would feel running through the webbing of our fingers. With a few more drinks we have redefined ideal and we're suddenly happy that someone is sitting with us. Maybe they're laughing. Maybe they talk with their hands and they've tapped the tips of their fingers into our forearm. Maybe they've kissed us on the cheek. It doesn't matter, really, because all the armor we've created to keep at bay anything but perfection has now been shed, and we're able to enjoy a moment with a human being we may have otherwise overlooked.
Tomorrow is another day, of course - and we understand this even in now, in the moment - but for now we are too happy with the fact that our cheeks hurt from smiling to cast any extraneous considerations.
Note: the prior was written while intoxicated. In the interest of fairness and truth I have left it unedited.