I should be lamenting how our garbage beat our explorers,

but all I want is to play spin-the-bottle in the deepest crevice

of the ocean—I'll sip a Smirnoff Ice in the murk

with a slimy little guy whose name I don’t remember.

Let's romanticize being young and under enormous pressure.

You know how it was, when anywhere you went was up.

Whose bottle did they find? Give me a name, an address.

Look, I’m not mad, I promise. I’ll let you kiss me. I have to

remember what it’s like, the road from your lips to the abyss.