Bubble Tea
Current mood: awake

There is absolutely nothing more pleasurable in life than bubble tea. For me, it represents everything holy in life. A factotum of all medicines to cure every ill, it is a melange of turgid, cold orbs of tapioca so large a special wider straw is needed, sweet milky liquid of every imaginable flavor, and flat slates of ice that make it even more delectable.

I bought an almond one for $3.50. I feel like I'm getting something extra when I chew on the bubbles. Perhaps it's the aesthetics of the domed lid, the pastel straw, the uniform color throughout. Or maybe it represents the way life is supposed to be.

I go to the beach alone when the moon pulls the ocean and all the little clams are shaken around like the tea in the martini-shaker before they add the bubbles. Defying parallax, I take up a handful of shells and fling them at the hanging florescent orb, aiming for the strings that keep it suspended in the air. Cutting one, the moon rotates back and forth like a limp marionette. I reach into the fabric of the sea and pick up fish and clams and lobsters and puffers and sharks and hurl them at the acne-scarred sphere as if it were a piñata, eventually knocking the whole thing to pieces. Like how the spider's babies floated away on their webs in the book about the talking pig, little spheres of moon emerge from the cracked shell, floating down into the water. Mouth agape and arms akimbo, I stand in awe as the globulettes gently lodge themselves in the apertures between the peaks of each wave, lighting momentarily in unison with all the power of the sun. I hurry to shield the glory of God from burning my eyes out, as the rush of visual fire seems to imprint itself in the backs of my eyelids. The ocean's wordless song stops. The miniature moons sink into the ocean, and I feel the land sink beneath me as I run into the water.

Everything is stopped. I find it impossible to believe the stoicism of the water, how I can move it with my fingers and still feel its viscosity even without the movement that characterizes it. One of these moon bubbles lies on the ocean floor, and I sense its awareness even though it doesn't move. I touch it. It has the texture of a newborn baby, sticky and gooey from its last environment. A strand of what I take to be umbilical cord is still connected to it. I kiss the untarnished, uncratered skin of this ethereal child in respect. Lighting peacefully, with not as much strength as the first illumination, it begins to rise from the water. Grabbing hold of its umbilical cord, I rise up with it, into the night sky. Scrambling to the top, I sit as if on a inanimate ferris wheel as we rise up above the town, rising with the many sons and daughters of the moon. The atmosphere parts for the bubbles as they rise into the universe, circling around the earth counter-clockwise. I jump joyously from bubble to bubble, floating through the air and touching down on each one as they light in recognition. Their circle grows wider and wider as they spread apart, each to a separate destination. They shine brightly but not blindingly in farewell as they move out to illuminate other planets, other galaxies in the night. Eventually, it's just me and my bubble left, gazing out over the earth, as the tides stretch to greet us. The cord breaks off and falls to the earth, curled into an S-shape. The bubble grows and expands, becoming older as I remain the same. When I lift my hands from its surface, I realize I've left a huge crater. I cry, but each tear leaves its mark. A shower of meteors comes from behind, leaving worse damage than I could have ever done.

"Goodnight Moon!" I cry, letting go. I can only do more damage than good. It lights weakly and I can't stop crying. I fall to earth and watch it from the beach, my bubble grown into a moon, the only thing protecting humanity from the fireballs of the Devil. And who appreciates him? Who notices the pain he endures? A few nights later, I kill him. I kill his suffering and bubbles float into the water, bright and small. One of them will take his place, and the cycle of life will continue. An S-shaped bed of white flowers stands undying at my post, and I take it up faithfully every night. I am the only one.

"Go oft to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path."--R.W.E