Looks like I actually have something to post on tumblr for once.
Today was a good day. I haven't had many lately, really.
It starts off pretty shitty, actually. It's a minimum day and no one knows what to do. EJ drives downtown for no reason, and Damon, Monico, EJ and I all get out of the car and walk. We walk down the pier to the beach when I step on a massive piece of gum and sit down to scrape it off.
We start talking, and talking, and I get the idea to try skipping some rocks. So Monico and I climb down the rocks and start throwing some down into the ocean. EJ and Damon are messing with weird sea urchins and things when Damon finds a 40 oz empty alcohol bottle.
Message in a bottle? EJ says.
Monico and Damon are down. I'm, honestly, not. It seems stupid, a waste of time, and taking away from our productive and deep conversation. But the guys are into it, so Damon pulls out some paper and I give Monico my pen and he starts to write.
He writes about the world, and California. He writes about Obama, and the economy, and Twitter. He writes about earthquakes, and Google, and himself, and as he writes, I'm intrigued; what if someone actually found it? It is a thick glass bottle. And drift tends to get washed ashore. What if one day someone finds this bottle and reads our message— how would it feel?
And with that I was in. I take the letter as Mico finishes and I write. I try to be funny. I make jokes about situations the reader could be in. I write a small Japanese segment just in case it floats the wrong way. I tell them how much uglier I am than Monico, but I ask them to find me if I'm alive, and whether they still use emotes.
:]
Damon and EJ both write their segments— half a page, each of us— and then we all write down our information. I'm not sure what the others write, but I write my full name, and my Gmail, because I'm confident Google will have taken over the world by then. I write my blog as well, so that if I am dead, they can read all of my inferior poetry that may, by then, may be mistaken as good somehow due to language evolution.
We tear some fishing line off a drift cloth laying on the nearby rocks, roll up the letter, and tie it. Damon cleans the bottle out and we insert the letter and close the cap as tight as we can. Then we walk to the end of the pier.
Monico reaches back, and he hurls the bottle out as far as he can
and as it flies into the ocean, glistening in the sunlight, I can only think that maybe the greatest plan really is nothing.
