. 
Suddenly I'm thinking about Teddy Pendergrass' accident in the 80s and vividly picturing the winding road where I drove so many times. It's like a metaphor for my fear that when I hit the wall my usual recovery techniques stopped working. Shutdown. This time can't be blamed on toot sweet. Think of circling the drain then a quick turn to the left and utopia nirvana post-coital posturing serves as a reminder that we digress because puppy love is immortal.
The call of the why not? presupposes a distinct marker on both the mop-up and the muck-up aspects. Where it does not we apply a corrective tone and justify the hedonism. After all, it's just appetite stim with a drift towards sweet. Add a dash of spirits and we've just defined indulgence. Gusts of 60 trigger the craving for patio parlays. Makes a mockery of all the ho-ho-ho shit. Knowing the buttered spots is a better benchmark than contrived shutdown shit.