Let’s say that you go to an amusement park, a place known as a sort of most elated location on our planet. Let’s say it may or may not be located in Southern California and the mascot may or may not be a mouse. Let’s just pretend, just for fun, that you decide it would be a good idea to get high.

This is a terrible idea.

I’ll start at the beginning.

Let’s say that after eating you decide it might be a good idea to “elevate” your senses. You start to feel it as you go into a 3D show that may or may not star one of the greatest performers of our generation and John Huston’s daughter as an intergalactic queen with obscenely long nails. Let’s say that as you enter the show you begin to feel pleasant effects of what you may or may not have ingested. After the show let’s say that you decide to go on a rollercoaster through outerspace. This seems like a fantastic idea.

That is, until you’re waiting in line. You’re in a confined, strangely lit hallway and suddenly you find yourself reassuring yourself that you are not actually going to go into space. Then the line opens up and suddenly you squeeze your companions hand tighter. “I’ve made a terrible mistake” you might think. “I wonder if I can still back out. But if I back out can I do it like a normal person, or will I be screaming? I better not risk it. I better stay in line.”

“Are you afraid of the rollercoaster?” your companion asks. You want to scoff. You want to roll your eyes. Instead you nod and try not to cry as you whisper, “Yes.” But you don’t want to turn back. You feel fairly certain that you’re safe but by George if you actually wind up in space that’s just something you’ll deal with when you get there.

You’re strapped in, ready to go. There are lights and movement. You begin the ride screaming out of real terror. Eventually this turns into a scream of delight. You get off of the ride feeling accomplished. “This is fun,” you think.

But then suddenly, it isn’t. You can’t walk normally and you need to sit down. So you sit down on the bench. But why is everyone staring at you? “They’re not,” you’re assured. But then why does it feel like every single little kid who walks by is staring deep into your soul? Can kids tell when you’re high, the same way that kids can sense ghosts? You know how they say children are very perceptive. One girl walks by in a tutu, her eyes locked on yours. “I’m human!” you want to cry out. “Stop staring at me! I’m not a monster, I’m a man!” Then you realize that the David Lynch reference would be totally lost on her. This is why children are useless, you think. They never understand your art house references.

You start to wonder why there are so many children around you and why they’re all screaming. You feel like you’ve been sitting on the bench for an hour. “Let’s stand up,” your companion suggests. “No,” you wail. “I can’t. I don’t remember how to walk.” “Yes, you do. I’ll help you.” “I can’t walk!” You protest, wringing your hands, like Orson Welles in the second half of Citizen Kane. “Let’s walk. It’s just like sitting here, but moving.” That sounds reasonable. You let your companion guide you. He reassures you that no one is staring at you. You’re walking! “I am a robot,” you think. “With walking robot technology.”

“Why don’t we try a calm ride, to distract you?” You think about the idea. “What about pirates?” he offers.

“NO. NO PIRATES.”

“Why?”

“TOO SCARY. IT’S DARK AND THEY HAVE WEIRD FACES. IT’S SCARY. NO FUCKING PIRATES!! ANY FUCKING PIRATES AND I’M LEAVING. NO PIRATES.”

“Okay. No pirates.”

You walk in circles. You wonder how long this will last. You think that the child version of yourself would punch you for wasting your day at this place being high to the point where you can barely walk. “Shut up, inner child,” you growl. “Children get to walk around like they’re high all the time. It isn’t fair.”

You lose track of time. Why is there so much noise? Where did all of these people come from and where are they going? Why won’t they just leave? Are you hungry? These are questions you cannot answer.

You have moments of clarity where you think, “I’m absolutely fine.” Then it’s like taking off your glasses where everything snaps out of focus and suddenly you’re thinking, “There’s no fucking way I’m getting on that submarine.” This happens for a while.

“I’m feeling better,” you announce. “Are you still afraid of everything?” you are gently asked. “Not as much,” you reply, sighing with relief.

Then the worst thing of all happens. You round a corner. And there, lumbering towards you, so close you almost crash into his stiff, outwardly stretched arms, is a 6 foot tall sad donkey. “Come play with me,” you imagine him saying. “Forever and ever and ever and ever…”

You jump and run from the giant donkey, not looking at where you’re going. You reach a clearing and put your head down. “I did not just need that right now,” you gasp. And then you laugh. And laugh. And suddenly you can’t stop laughing. But you feel that if you don’t, you will die. It’s a difficult balance.

Finally you are back to normal, riding in a honeypot. That’s when your companion starts to find the honey-loving bear and his jubilant tiger friend a little too intense…

I Run With You, Spirit Animal — Evan Voytas