Impulse has a gorgeous cousin; her name is Spontaneity. She’s a walking advertisement for a fiber optic cable company, fractured light like broken attention spans. Impulse drives us, pushes us, is there when we’re desperate for a way to make a decision simple, to give up responsibility because we’re ashamed of what we want. Impulse is who we throw under the bus when we do damage to our bodies and hearts and act in ways that hurt those we recognize as warm on the inside. Impulse is who we rat out when we don’t know who else to blame but ourselves. Impulse has a cousin and she’s the kind of sexy that makes it hard to hold back. She’s everything that impulse is but she never gets the short end of the stick.
Her eyes stare but see little. Two or three weeks ahead, three or four blocks away.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she says. “I’ll go with you, I’ll pick you up, take you down, smash you apart, and do my very best not to melt you.” The next week is like candle wax slowly dripping off the edge of a table, stacking up high on a pile of itself, a fat Buddha says “rub my belly for good luck. You’ll need it, she’ll melt you”. She has that unique smile, such transparent joy. She never learned to count past 10 because forward and backward are so irrelevant to Grandma Now’s children. Impulse has a gorgeous cousin; her name is Spontaneity.