"And she cried out in eternal ecstasy- for never before had she felt such hate and love for life."

My parents got one of those ugly green frozen concoction makers for Christmas. It's a silvery piece of plastic junk that looks monstrous in our otherwise light and cheery kitchen. Every morning, as I'm eating my cereal, I stare at it in disgust, wondering who knew my parents were such alcoholic partiers, who knew that they would revere it as if it were a solid gold Buddah figurine.
I used to let my hand rest on it as I waked towards the dishwasher, taking in its hard surface, it's divets and it's red plastic logo. Margaritaville, it read, reminding me (of course) of Jimmy Buffet and Hawaii and a particular mango sunscreen that I wore when I was taking surfing lessons. Kaleb and Dusty laughed at it when they saw it. "We can use it..." they joked, and their faces reminded me of lime drinks we used to make when we were younger. Soon afterwards, though, they ignored it, understanding that it represented something more than getting drunk, or summer, or crossing lines.
*****************

I remember once a party Kaleb threw for himself in honor of his own birthday. His house had been dirty before the hundred or so people came over; dirty dishes on the floor, the tables, the mantle, resting in the armchairs. Clothes littered the couch: big piles of Peach's Disney princess underwear, Kaleb's band t-shirts, their father's favorite camoflague cap. Beer cans were neatly laid on top of these piles when I arrived, and a particular odor of sweat and sand filled the air. I kissed Kaleb hello, though his breath disgusted me and the way in which he cinched my waist with his arm made me pull away from him. He was already drunk, his eyes were wild and ready to fight anything that made him angry, his hair was tussled like he had already been trying to egg someone on.
"Jesus, Kaleb," I said, grabbing his hand and pushing it away from me.
"I'm waiting for it," he yelled at me, raising a purplish drink in my direction. I asked him for what.
"Something," he laughed, and I knew I wanted to keep his small bits of philosophy a secret from everyone. I wanted it only for myself.

*******************

"How culpable was he
That last night when he broke
Our tribe's complicity?
'Now, you're supposed to be
An educated man,'
I hear him say. 'Puzzle me
The right answer to that one."

"Casualty" by Seamus Heaney (one of my favorite poets who ever lived...should check him out even if you despise poetry).