Another piece on Thorazine

            Today I purchased a quart bottle of flavored seltzer, and brought it home.  Here is one of life’s little treats I enjoy every now and then that isn’t expensive but tastes as though it is, and is available at any supermarket.  I refrigerated the seltzer for a time, then decided I would drink some of it, because I was thirsty; my medication certainly more thirsty than I was without medication, when I could endure entire days without even a sip of water; in fact, in those days I didn’t drink water at all–I drank milk and OJ in the morning, maybe a glass of diet soda at night, but now I drink water literally by the gallon.  And here I was with my luxury: flavored Seltzer.  Cold.  Fizzy.  To be opened with care, I remembered.  And it’s a good thing I remembered, because seltzer, of all beverages, packs a wallop if opened carelessly.  One can even sustain injury from such mishaps.  A bottle of selzer is potential unrealized.  There’s a lot locked up in it that hasn’t come out.  So I opened it.  Carefully.  One crack at a time.  One iota.  A little more.  A little more.  A little more–as the bubbles gradually rose and exited to the surface of the water like a caged, screaming fetus finally allowed out of the womb–until finally, I was able to unscrew the cap and remove it–and drink, right out of the bottle.  Thorazine is like that; it acts as a buffer.  It slows down the release so there won’t be an explosion of fizz.  It ensures that there won’t be any dangerous messes.  It cradles the bubbles gently and gradually, so I can drink, drink, drink.  Without Thorazine, I’d have seltzer on the floor, as disorganized as my mind, and an empty bottle, without life, without hope.

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