A curious, greasy, hairless creature clutched a kombucha bottle, wearing only a hippie scarf wrapped around its cort bone, and entered the large tent of the recovery meeting I was in.
It bounced around the long wooden table where we sat, like a smooth ape. As its hands and toes ventured into the territory of strangers, its voice was high. Kneeling and stroking the palms of its cheeks, it rubbed its forearms and knees against various types of necks and hair. The young men and women in the crowd welcomed its gestures with shy giggles. I silently hated them for being so easily captivated by it.
I, a clean freak who disliked being touched, became tense as it got closer to where I was sitting. But just as it approached, it turned and jumped onto another table. It spread its legs, enveloping another woman in a sweaty embrace, only to release her like a discarded tissue, then jumped onto the stage.
Finally, it introduced itself: it was the master we had all been waiting for. “We are about to embark on a healing journey together that will make us all better!” it declared, waving the kombucha bottle, getting close to its packaged nuts, then dripping a few drops on her little nipple while massaging them, before shooting the rest of the bottle out...