Scene: NYC apartment. Carrie leans out of a window, smoking. A curly tendril moves fetchingly in the wind.
I couldn’t help but wonder—are we polygamists?
Later that day, I got to thinking—if perspectivism rejects objective metaphysics as impossible, and claims that there are no objective evaluations which transcend cultural formations or subjective designations, this must mean that there are no objective facts and that there can be no knowledge of a thing in itself!
Then it dawned on me: Samantha was the Son of Sam.
And I couldn’t help but wonder—is it beastiality if you’re only watching?
Early the next morning, I got to thinking—what was so wrong about a little recreational heroin usage?
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder—when did we stop being free to choose our own age of consent?
And then it dawned on me: that was a human finger in my soup.
But I couldn’t help but wonder–would Miranda be OK? I had left her gasping for breath in the tentacles of a huge jellyfish. But I knew she would understand, for I needed to run to the corner and hail a taxi so that Big would see me swaying in the fabulous New York breeze. Friends really are soulmates.
After a few drinks with Big, I got to thinking–jellyfish are just like men. Some wrap a tentacle about your forehead, some wrap it around your neck, and some wrap it right around your lungs (poor Miranda). It was the perfect column idea, and the perfect ending to a perfect New York night.