Shit, I'm bored, reading one page for this Jewish lit class every 5 minutes before staring at my phone. Parker's on his way (hopefully with some addies). 20 minutes later, he gives me a ring, and I come downstairs to let him inside. He's holding two grocery bags full of whip it chargers, and besides $120 slacks and a polo shirt, he's wearing a shit-eating grin because the next few hours are dedicated to depravity. This our Sabbath: I slip a balloon over the nozzle of the whip cream dispenser, and he hands me 4 cartridges to start with. Sure, we could do them one at 'em, like a couple lame ass bitches; nah, we want the total euphoria that a few at a time can do: my toes curl up like a chick does when she cums, my mouth is wide open as if i had just spent the past half hour shooting ropes, and my lips are purplish. But best of all, for the most fleeting 30 seconds of all time, my mind reaches a different level of consciousness, where I realize that the universe is perfect and will always be that way, that we are exactly where we are supposed to be, and are doing exactly what we should be doing, because ultimately the only Lord is the ourselves, the voice we whimper in bed during sleepless nights. And for all of one minute and 5,000 brain cells, I extinguish that little bitch. At least I check that shit-talker within so he knows that I know that he knows we are one and the same.

Before I can catch my breath, Parker snatches the dispenser out of my hands and ritually fills up the balloon, and I watch him, looking like he's nearly about to faint but with dumbest fucking grin on his face and (I'm pretty sure there's a little drool collecting in the corner of his mouth) I'm exuberant to know that someone else knows this tiny little secret of the very first psychedelic discovered by western man. There world is glorious, always, and God is merciful and cruel, and all dichotomies ultimately collapse once our malfunctioning software downloaded into our brains is briefly fixed.