Butterscotch blondies

Life is strange. Sometimes you'd want to swallow a coin to make things go, and sometimes you'd write off a fortune to make things stay where they are. Last night I met with a friend who thinks 25 years old is his deadline - while I would like to live until 50. It took us two buckets of beer to talk about himself, and another three bottles each for both of us to read between each other's lines. We hopped from Bollywood to Pura Vida to Handlebar and ended up downing eight bottles. It was a windy night - and from the balcony at Greenbelt, the wind streamed from Makati alleys and buildings, almost throwing tables upside down. At 10PM there was light rain. We found ourselves sort of crouched to see the ATM keypad with our dimmed visions. Conversations weren't the same from 12 years ago: here we are, talking about his project that won't be finished until 2022, or my five-year old son. (Funny, as a father my age, I have to juggle between getting drunk and being responsible. Or maybe that's the essence of adulthood?) There was talk about drugs he had taken already: opioids, LSD, cocaine, hash, and weed. He recommended Brockhampton. I thought of Ashbery's "What is Poetry?" as a defining moment. Then, the stranger questions: When we first met at MIBF, did I tag along a Japanese friend and a girl friend? Is life as a tub of clay handed to you, and you mold it in ways you wish it to be?