Stomped on Bed of Lettuce

How funny it is: to have a friend of the same name, in such a country, during such a time. In our flower crowns and black-rimmed eyes, we pick armfuls of crops from other people’s gardens, we make rich men watch us eat from their plates, we get fall-down drunk off rhubarb wine. We may be living as guests in a man’s world, as characters in a prestige film—but that doesn’t mean we have to be good ones. “If the entire world is bad, why shouldn’t we be?”