Pulling out jives and jamboree handouts

(this is a free expression written off the top of my head ... no previous thought was made ... apologies if it doesn't make sense)

Up, up, up the boy felt himself lifted as he body held tightly to the sofa seat. His mind, though, floated through the party like the Hindenburg. Effortless in flight, it glided out the front door and into the cool, dark night.

There is a marvelous thing about one's mouth. It needs not a brain to function. And while the boy's mind enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the concrete sidewalks, beside the glowing streetlamp, and under the cloudless, yet starless night sky, his mouth ran on like Usain Bolt. He spoke loose, he spoke fast, and the cockiness of his mouth's content was beginning to draw curious glances from those around him. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps his mouth was just excited to be unrestrained by that pesky, all knowing mind.

The mind drifted through an eternal storybook land filled with the boy's favorite characters from books and movies. It watched as the non-fiction of his life blurred the lines of reality into day dreams so real he felt they were actually happening. Unfortunately for the boy, He was not playing a game of quidditch and discussing the state of modern religion and politics with Benjamin Franklin, his current crush Samantha, and Jesus Christ. In actuality, something much worse was about to happen.

While no one would shout "Oh the humanity" at the ephemeral crashing of the boy's mind back into the party, the wreckage and aftermath would be etched onto the wreckage of this evening. Suddenly, the music had been shut off. The lights seemed extra bright. All the angry faces staring directly at our boy. His mind snapped back into place and tried to make logic of what just happened. The mouth ... motored on.

The mind finally shut the mouth up. All context clues were missing, save the angry faces. The mind organized a full retreat, organized and full of class. The legs, wobbly from drink decided to leisurely weave through the now empty room. The eyes, so well glazed they were ready for a kiln, spotted Samantha by the only exit.

Before a word could be spoken Samantha's hand met the boy's face with the stinging equal to the hind legs of a platypus. The mind abandoned the organized retreat and flew off to happier moments. The quidditch game restored and Samantha replaced by Julie ... she was out of town this weekend.