If you fall for possibilities again you’re an idiot

driving head-first into a pile-up northbound on SH1 before a long weekend.

Ashton Kutcher’s coming for you too -

he’s going to round the corner with his vanload of local fuckbois any minute now. They’ve been hiding out on a street nearby with satellites on the roof and TV screens installed behind the front seats, live-streaming the whole thing.

This gets them every time, they’ll say, cracking up over open cans of Mother.

The show ends and the bois go home to their girlfriends with clean hair and monogrammed helium balloons they bought from an ad off Instagram to make promises they’ll never be able to keep.

And you, after you’ve been Punk’d, you leave again. On the plane on your way to somewhere new you meet the woman in the seat across the aisle -

She looks you in the eyes and says - I know exactly where you’ve come from and I know exactly where you’re going. She won’t stop holding your gaze, grabbing your hands and pulling you in close so only you can hear –

Keep buying the tickets. Keep taking the rides. It’s the only thing we’ve got.