There are things in the world that I will always appreciate more than money, art, Hannah. Those things are these things.
Recently, I couldn't believe giant bouncy balls are still only 25 cents at Old Navy. Recently, I stole a big red punch balloon from my neighboring apartment. Now I have two beautiful things in my life.
Now what to do with them! Well, that's easy, play with them constantly everywhere always all the time. I've been doing that. Punch balloon stays in the apartment, it is for indoor play--because otherwise the adjacent apartment will find out maybe. Maybe they hear me pounding it against our dividing wall hundreds of times in repetition? Who can say. Bouncy Ball goes outside, only when it is cold; it only fits in the big pockets of the big coats. anyway, I have some findings:
One. Punch balloon is light and easy to kick up and up and up forever. today i am Lionel Messi. I am the best soccer player in the living room.
Two. Punch balloon is amphetamines of balloons. That just means I'm addicted. I can play with Punch Balloon, alone, in my living room for like seriously 20 minutes. Everyone gone in the apartment, just me. It would be much longer, maybe three times longer, if not inhibited by resounding shame.
Three. Bouncy Ball is much more daring than Punch Balloon. Bouncy ball makes great leaps off the third story brick of buildings and sometimes accidentally the third story glass of buildings—and sometimes yes the first story siding of white sedans in the road. accidentally. Bouncy Ball is a man of accident, very fragile in direction, easily swayed by evil cracks and the laws of physics as it bounces in a spin, deflecting off into wild and crazy aims. Bouncy Ball is independent, and will one day leave me I guess. For he lives hard and fast, throwing himself into the world like a tiny bouncing dot—and really, what are we? at best these tiny bouncing dots. at par big bulbous masses of air, held by a thin rubber skin and falling to the ground too easy. like big punch balloons. at least punch balloons are loud.
Four. Great things are only Great in the places they ought to be. mohandas ghandi would not be a poor leader in canada, only a poor citizen. likewise, Punch Balloon is not well appreciated by the masses on the crowded, jammed, claustrophobic outdoor sidewalks. Punch Balloon is not the greatest ambassador to close fit bodies. likewise again, and this is more important, Bouncy Ball is not at home inside an apartment. Nobody is happy about the explosive and ricocheting noises of hard things hitting their softer things. He is as unwanted and as cumbersome here as David Guetta playing at max volume as I enter the apartment. nicki minaj, dear heaven. i'm sorry I ever listened to Monster.
Five. This is the most important- listen. Bouncy Ball hates pockets, but I keep him there often. That is because of my ultimate discovery. When I bounce Bouncy Ball along sidewalks, and I talk on the phone, no strange looks. Oh, look, that boy is chatting with someone, it's like he's spending time with friends. his bouncy ball is just extra. When you bounce Bouncy Ball along sidewalks, and you don't talk on the phone, plenty of strange looks. Wow, that kid is fucking depressing! only a bouncy ball in the world... fuck it. It's not depressing to have more fun than anyone else has ever had ever. I've solved the conundrum by experiencing Ultimate Fun whilst holding my phone silently to my ear. the same thing goes for playing with Punch Balloon alone in your apartment when your roommate barges on. it's a sacrifice, oh, a sacrifice for the sake of friends, for without friends, who would play with my bouncy ball with me? oh, the things i must do when, damn it, i just want to play with my ball.