I’m driving my mom’s Toyota RAV4. Things are going well. It’s a pretty Texas day. The sun is shining. No complaints.
Then I see the button.
Auto LSD? That’s a new one. I know A/C. I know Cruise Control. Seek. Scan. No problem. But what the heck is Auto LSD?
I push the button.
The sun is bright, beautiful, liquid, it drips on the horns of narwhals, it is me and you and you are he and the walrus, did I mention the walrus? His mustache is so comforting. Birds are screaming in an abysmal pit, and the hole is deep and green and pure, and you are no longer here. It is just me. A choir of aardvarks vomit on rolling hills and from the sticky upchuck rows of corn sprout, they are covered in dust and “wash me” is written on their leaves, if only there were spit in the dancing man’s glands to cross though those words. If only Bill Burroughs and Jack Kerouac and Woody Woodpecker were here to offer him a glass of water. Laughing.
I blink my eyes. The clock says five hours have passed. I’m at the same stop sign as before.
Things will never be the same.