Hi, Sleepy. Tonight, I stumble into a story about watery vegetable soup, forbidden teenage love, and a dog named M who pinned me to a leather sofa with his smelly breath and fifty kilos of stubbornness.

From there, we drift to wrinkled birthday balloons, the sad fate of helium, barbershop choirs full of old drunk men, gooey macaroni comfort food, and the odd arrogance of singing “My Wild Irish Rose” with too much confidence.

Somehow, it all turns into a meditation on love, gas, sadness, laughter, and whether one should ever preemptively murder a balloon.

It is what it is. What happens, happens. And right now, there’s nothing we can do. Let’s begin.

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