I know I’ll regret it in the morning, but looking back now these past twenty minutes, I’m glad I smaked it. The bowl. I’m glad I smaked the whole thing, even if it constituted the final crummerts of my satchel, by George.
You know, my fellow cadets get into these dreadful routines where they brush the last of the jar into a powdery little pile and smake a series of bedeviled miniscule sparks which mean nothing and foster nothing. They are trivial smakes, ironic and unfulfilling in every way, and perhaps a type of pastoral masochism not unlike sweat-lodge yoga and planking. All in the name of “higher” conscience. I saw, Bowlderdash!
What folly! Not me, I go for the gusto. But not at first, you see. I am coy with my decision. “Self,” I say, “There is no way you can convince me to smake this entire bowlerton. I will sleep much better knowing that a glorious spark comes with the dawn.” Yes, yes, I nod, but I don’t say anything in response. But that is when the magic happens. I walk five feet away and take a deep breath. Then slowly, the realization hits, and it’s back to the jar, nary a word spoken, to load that last bowl with the razor focus of a madman, using whichever blunt instruments and tiny brushes I have on hand. Every crystal is accounted for!
And when I’m done what can I say, the argument is quick but I always win. Go out with a bang, not a series of fizzling piffs. For some reason it is always the most glorious of stones, the absolute soaring high, a novel, powerful zesty punch like a rogue cannonball sailing through the air. I become Zeus, nay, the ruler of my fellow Canntrymen, if even for a second!
I’m glad I smaked it. I did the right thing. Everything from here on out may turn out a figment of my imagination. The unicorn, the dwarf pirate. But that is the joy of these matters.
Note to self, I must go with haste to market in the morning.
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