That May

There was this May where I thought flying to the States and hitting on Lady Gaga while she was dealing with a breakup was a legitimate plan. Like I was somehow the answer to that particular problem. I’ve never even liked her pseudo-crazy act that much—it always felt exhausting—but May logic overrides everything.

Banana milk mixed with cocoa became momentarily important. The holy grail of dairy. It tasted fine. A dog made sense for a few days too, some idea that a small creature depending on you would fix things. It wouldn’t.

Five in the morning felt like the right time for sex. Spending an entire weekend in one building that wasn’t mine—a 7-Eleven, a train station, someone’s apartment—just staying in one place and seeing if 48 hours of horizontal living changed anything. It didn’t, but the impulse was real.

Getting God tattooed on my forehead seemed necessary at one point. Not as sincere spiritual gesture, just chaos. Then walking around, especially toward cops, with the absolute conviction they’d find it hilarious. They wouldn’t have. I knew that even then, but the conviction felt pure.

Making a funny video to upload to YouTube like I’d invented entertainment. There was this purity to refusing to watch cat videos on the internet while doing basically everything else stupid—like that was the one line. The geometry of only shaving one side of my body and calling it Two-Face, a revolution against male grooming conducted entirely through pubic hair.

All of it was May. The month where you’re not quite sane and you don’t care about it. June came and it stopped. That was always how it worked.