SAD, SED, SID, SOD, SUD

Too much of a good thing.

Is usually, never, a good thing.

”They” tell us:

Everything in moderation.

Just a dab will do ya.

Don’t over do……

Lest we make a fool of ourselves in the era of

Being noticed come hell or high water.

In the good old days, “they” were the ones we listened to. Thought we were required to listen to. Until we weren’t.

For example.

”They” used to say we “should” drink eight, eight ounce glasses of water a day.

O.k. Math. Easy math even tells us that is 8x8=_____.

That’s quite a bit of H2O

“They” say, it is for our health.

Those, “they” people who seem to know what is best for us.

Perhaps.

They have never been to the desert.

It gets kind of dry.

The earth knows full well how to take care of herself.

We humans. Not always.

When humans inhabited the land.

And started thinking they knew better.

It became a game, a game of people’s lives.

One could even say a battle.

Of the survival of the fittest.

Humans, so foolish, knew very little about fighting in the jungle.

The dryer the better?

The wetter the better?

Too hot?

Too cold?

It’s sometimes difficult to meet that daily expected water quota with existing droughts and all. Limiting water intake while some stock pile it in secret places. Measuring the water levels in attempts to look busy while plants and their leaves wilt before our very eyes.

Sprinkler band.

Sprinkler fines.

Gulping water in front of another in attempts of thirsty games of war. Where do those plastic bottles go, anywhere…..I heard a nasty rumor they get dumped into the widest body of water on earth—-the ocean.

How can this be?

Well.

Many of us don’t know, what we don’t know.

While the ones who may know—spin it round in worldly word salads of leafy greens and crunchy lies.

And rationed for for ye, but not for thee.

Whatever it takes.

Who wants to start the fight?

Who wants to end the fight?

Worst of all the “they” who tell us how much water consumption is good for us seem to be the same “theys” that control the flush valves and shower heads.

Enter.

Plan B.

A way to play catch up.

In the liquid race of dehydration and dry gulches.

Some resort to the quench thirst Olympics of beer, spirits, gators and bulls and sprites. The bigger, the better?

Ben Franklin said that beer is God’s gift to us. 🍺

Ben Franklin was also a genius who discovered electricity in his spare time, so I am thinking I may listen to this guy. In no way is this an advocation for imbibing in the spirits of drinking before the ripe old age of 21.

But it does beg a question.

A very important question.

While the monitors monitor our consumption of all things liquid. Who is monitoring the monitors?

Close your eyes.

Picture this:

Five images:

SAD. SED. SID. SOD. SUD.

Each tell a different story. A personal story.

Each story, of which, is none of anybody’s business, unless they choose to tell it, but becomes everybody’s business nonetheless.

SAD. Really.

Imagine a large room, with pictures all over. Suddenly, images not only jump off the page,they jump they jump off the wall and into the main foyer.

You are there, but not really there. Dizzy. (Perhaps dehydration has already set in)

What does this look like to you? What image does this bring into your mind?

A party?

A funeral?

All of the sudden, this place looks like a room full of idiots.

In this place, everyone has, in front of them, eight glasses of eight ounces of water? To be drunk in a certain amount of time? Is it social? Is it a contest. A pool party? This picture, this image in your mind. Look!! How SAD, sad is—off in the corner all alone. too afraid to join the madness of the idiots.Watching. Waiting. For a chance at the big gulp?

Then there is SED. What is SED doing at this gathering? Did SED say too much about the water. The glasses. The eight ounces.The timing. The thirsty individuals gulping and slurping. The drinking contest.

The eyes scan around the room, and there is SID. All wet.

Need we say anymore.

SOD. SOD is over at the other end of the room. On the ground. Digging. Planting. Attempting to plant seeds of destruction or resurrection, but all the chaos in the foyered room is too loud and deafening to allow SOD any real growth, any real chance at a normal sprout of chance at life. For SOD.,There was no water.

SOD attends to itself like a good little soldier. Quiet. Steadfast. Reserved (like a fine wine) with just enough approachable ness and regard to be inviting. Yet. Nobody comes to the other end of the room. They are drowning in their own sorrow of lack of accounatabled sharing. SOD. SOD ran out of water and was unable to grow.

Lastly.,There is SUD. The most insidious of all the images at the gallery. At the party of the idiots. While everyone is fighting over the eight glasses of eight, and being measured by their blood contributions of choice, SUD is over, alone, desperate all while,

Cosuming liquids in monumental jugs and gallons.

And nobody noticed.

Nobody. Noticed.

SUD could not take it anymore. Really. Could not take the madness anymore. So SUD succumbed to the throes of the devil and was hooked. SUD had his whole life ahead of him. His WHOLE life. The insidious nature of SUD is a hooking of all hookable hooks.

And SUD was hooked.

During the funeral-party-nightmare extravaganza. SOD was unable to make out the lines on the wall. The pictures on the wall. The images floating freely in front of his face.

SUD. Had hit rock bottom.

SUD could not get up as the daggar of the stagger had pieced his back.

It was ok to walk out the door. Leave the madness. Leave the party. SUD did not know what he did not know. His life took a turn for the worse before it took the turn for the better.

It is ok.

To walk away.

Just ensure.

You CAN walk away.

There is so much you have to offer others.

Let your conscience be your guide.

And let the water-logged-hogged idiots, drown themselves in their misery.

Rules.

Are made to be respectfully broken if they apply to the few at the expense of the many.

You CAN walk away.

Just ensure,

YOU can walk away.