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2002-04-14 - 4:19 a.m. Maybe I’ll be a doc for 5 or 6 years. Then I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe I’ll work with kids. Little ones. I was just telling a friend that day, one of the biggest kicks in my life is sneaking up on a 2 year old drinking from a milk bottle. And she’s just suckling there, on her little pillow (embroidered with a lamb, or tiny flowers, if you smell it it’ll have that baby smell of talc and spilt milk), whose edge maybe she’ll roll and roll with forefinger and thumb, so young and she’s already addicted to texture. So I’ll just loom over her, and I wonder what she’ll think seeing this adult person coming up close, probably momentary doubt, but not distrust, no, her defences won’t be up on alert just yet, she doesn’t yet know what it means to be betrayed. And I’ll smile at her and tap the base of her bottle, tap-tap-tap, sending a love-morse all the way to her lips, her gums, and the part that gives me the kick is when she stops suckling for a while, and there’s this sudden gurgle in her bottle, the air’s just seeped in and made this jet of bubbles, and she’ll break into a smile. And though she looks a bit stupefied by the whole episode, I’ll see that little chiding wisdom in her eyes, saying, ‘why are you teasing me? I’m just drinking my milk,’ or ‘you’re such a silly little boy, a silly cheap-thrill boy.’ Or maybe I’ll be a boho writer who gets by on one meal a day. Or a journalist writing for some cyber-site, coming up with the most cutting, un-censorable theatre reviews. Retire to an ashram. Sit on a grass spot and talk to animals. Find peace, finally.
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