Excuse my beseeching note of the other evening. You may be the spiritual leader for ten million people, but I’m still your mother. It’s my job to worry about you, not the other way around.
If you hadn’t been swept up and taken to Dharamsala, you’d be kicking around the streets of our suburbs with other boys right now, perusing comic books and chasing zombies and working up your nerve to talk to the girl you liked. I could have had more of a chance to exercise my role as moral compass.
But here I am, as adrift in my exile as you are secure in yours. I tried out two different poker games this weekend. One night, I let myself win a little bit; the other night, I let myself win a lot. The payout made an impressive stack for Beefcake. You should have seen his face. I’ll let you in on a secret, darling: I like this. I like this quite a great deal.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.