Quackers reminded me of the Tale of the Duckling. Not the Ugly Duckling, but the duckling who is probably average looking, like Matt Damon. You see, even though he was a duck, he didn't know he could swim. All day long he waddled on shore, looking out over the refreshing water and wondering how he could build a boat out of shoots and brambles so that he could go enjoy it. He tried to make one a few times, but his webbed feet didn't work well with power tools. At this, he got very upset. If he were the fox, he would've said "Fuck it!" and cursed the lake. But he was kind of a depressive, so he just sat there, feeling sorry for himself. He decided to order a Racer 5. No, make that four Racer 5s. He got drunk. So drunk, dear reader, that he waddled a bit too close to the shore. So close, dear reader, that he fell in! "Squawk!" he cried, flapping his wings and squiggling his feet in the water. He did this for about a minute before realizing something amazing. He was floating! He could swim! All this time he was trying to make a boat, and you know what? His ass was a boat the whole time. I think we can all take something from this story.

The music at Casanova continued to be too loud, so I tuned my friends out again. The American Psycho reader had left, and what looked like an entire band took his area at the bar. They had that hopeful, just-out-of-the-practice-space vibe to them, excited for their next gig. They all ordered Racer 5s. The grapes were there, sparkling above their heads.

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