Stumbling from White Russian to White Russian without nary a care in the world. The sloshing of my glass being the slightest nuisance if only because the precious fluid might be spilled, thereby going unconsumed, lost forever to the mysterious process of evaporation, rising as an intoxicating mist to be inhaled by the atmospheric powers that be.
I would live in a fog of self-gratification, blind to responsibility and social acceptance. To be, if only to be. Nothing more, nothing less.
Don't pee on my rug and I won't pee on yours. That's the stuff that peace is made of.