Today, an old friend of mine slipped farther away from me than she has ever been. With age, it is said, comes wisdom. Yet these are the words spoken by those afraid to acknowledge the sad truth that age brings with it other things, many of them unpleasant.

Fifteen years ago at a plant in Ontario, a few parts imported from Sweden were assembled into a brand new Volvo 940. After a long run, that car has now begun its descent into the next life. A junkyard? Maybe. But that’s just where the scraps will go, the bones to decompose in the company of other lifeless vehicles. But where the spirit goes, who can say?

With oil leaking — nay — pouring from the head gasket, and several seals along the engine corroding down to nothingness, I know she cannot last much longer. Like an old woman succumbing to the clutches of senility and pushing away a plate of her younger self’s favorite food, the Volvo has decided that she no longer likes oil. I know, and you know, although she cannot see, that without oil, she will starve. Because oil is delicious.

A hot commodity on the global market, oil has brought about many terrible things. But this tragic fact is simply a tribute to the high regard with which we hold oil. It is worth noting that Venezuelans pay $0.12 per gallon of gasoline, demonstrating that socialist nations with large oil reserves do not properly revere the value of the substance. But we all know that without oil, gasoline, and other petroleum products, life would be drastically different. Because oil is delicious.

Even as we stand on the verge of newer, cleaner, greener, more efficient technologies, we have to acknowledge the millions of animals that came before us from whose rotted corpses we have taken our black gold. As we obsess about looking forward, let us take a moment to look back. Because, although my Volvo is too old and stubborn to admit it anymore, oil is delicious.

Brown water, most inferior of all things brown, why do you display your brown-ness so undeliciously? Like the Japanese, you are a kamikaze to the face during an otherwise relaxing shower. But it ends today. It ends now. Consider this my day that will live in infamy–the day when I was forced to go to work covered in a strange dark residue, which I would have washed away if not for one of life’s many paradoxes. You coward, hiding behind 5 seconds of purity. Your sneak attack may have worked once, but not again sir, not again. Consider this my declaration of war.
Brown water, what makes you so brown? Are you a chocolate sauce added by a kind utility worker to make some child’s dreams come true? No sir, you are evil. You are hate. You are all things brown that humanity would rather not see, smell, touch, nor taste. And I suggest you remain as such, for if you try again your efforts will be fruitless. With a spare gallon of unsoiled water hidden away, I am prepared for your next assault. I will be clean once again. Why, you ask? I speak for all humanity when I say–No thanks, brown water. I’m brown enough.

Ogres are like onions,
said the green one to the ass.
But hold to the analogy
and strange things come to pass.

Men, we’ll say, are like the seed
sunflowers like to drop,
for only when their souls are freed
can chaos truly stop.

Some have bumps, and some have cracks,
still some are small and frail.
But inside every man and seed:
a core that cannot fail.

Once the thing has fully grown,
the cage protects the heart;
whilst yet the core will feel alone,
it knows itself as art.

Crack the casing carefully
to catch a glimpse inside.
The substance lies within the shell –
where substance likes to hide.

Bite the seed and halve the whole;
let your mouth be filled
by the beauty of your neighbor’s soul,
the seed you’ve pried and killed.