Wine + 0

Before this, I did not know what a north star was. Now, I always know the right direction, even if sometimes I run the wrong way anyway. I didn't ask to be born. Not that anyone did. Not that anyone asked if I asked.

Not that you care.


Did you hear the one about the oak tree and the willow? The oak tree says "We've been growing here next to each other for seventy five years. Hello." And the willow goes "Ahhh! A talking oak tree!"

The end.



We've talked a lot about trees here today, and that's been a lot of fun. But let's remember that, technically, wines come from vines. Vines are different than trees. Go ahead and remember that please.

Done?

Excellent.


One thing about vines is that they wrap. They have tendrils. Hell, they are tendrils. They are merely creepy, as opposed to terrifying, only because of their speed. Specifically, their lack of speed. If something moved like a vine but fast enough that it could chase you, you'd lose your shit.

Literally.


Don't gimme that old line that anything that normally doesn't chase you chasing you would be nightmare-world, because that's not true in the same way. Cash money chasing you, for example, would not be nearly as creepy.

Unless it was.


The bottle of ink is not labeled right. It really oughtn't to be called India Ink unless it comes from Indianapolis. Should you be angry about this? It's tough to know how upset to get about these little things because it's tough to know if these things are really all that little. Who, exactly, is the messed up label hurting? Not just who.

Who, exactly?



I want to run in the right direction. It's not a direction at all. I don't know what it is. If I know what it was would that help me run in it? Towards it? At it? I know what the north star is.

In theory.