It can’t just be me. This looks like Heaven, right? Like when I die and go to Heaven and all my friends are like “It’s in a buerre blanc. I hope you like it,” and “Oh, hey, Rosario Dawson. It’s so nice to see you here, kissing Justin constantly,” and things like that while the sun sinks low and heavy toward the horizon and all the wine disappears amid the tinkling of crystal and the clattering symphony of flatware on porcelain or the laughter of genuine camaraderie. And of course the smell of flowers and their pollen colors our palates, making everything just a little sweeter, a little more a part of the earth. And then some angels are all like “Would you all care for back massages and a brief stint in the sauna before we play levitating Heaven polo?” and everyone’s like “Fuck yes, thank you,” and Rosario Dawson takes my hand while I’m turned to talk to Mike and when I glance over she puts a dollop of creme fraiche on my nose and everybody laughs but then she kisses it off and I kiss her chin and Gabriel is all like “Ooooooh, get it!” and then we totally French kiss and Eva Mendes and Mike shake their heads because they see this shit all the time and then the dirty dishes turn into doves and fly away and Jake’s all amazed because he’s new in Heaven and we’re like “Just wait until these chairs turn into white stallions, kid,” and then they do and it’s sauna time.
Someone kill me. I have such an afterlife to get to.
