I showed up in face paint and nothing else. You opened the wine anyway. That’s on you.
I taste like orange zest rubbed on a trampoline, peach skins in a confessional booth, and a wet herbal slap that makes you question the word “maceration.” I’m slightly fizzy. Or maybe that’s just you shaking.
You said, “Is this chilled?” I said, “Do you feel chilled?” Then I handed you a slice of grapefruit and told you to bite it while staring directly into the wine.
Am I balanced? Emotionally? God, no. Structurally? Impeccably. Am I delicious? You’re already on your third glass.
Serve with pickled things, food you can eat off a frisbee, or a three-course meal made entirely of mistakes. It’s not about understanding me. It’s about surrendering to the punchline.
