I don’t trust labels.  I like to have an idea of what I’m getting myself into when I take something off the shelf, or when I invest in a friendship.  Labels, ideally, give us an idea of what we’re going to find when we open the thing up and see what’s inside.  If there was no label, would we ever open the anomymous bottle?  Labels help us circumvent some of that uncertaintly because we can see, before you even pick it up, weigh it in our hand, compare it with our budget, what we’ll get when we take it home.  But labels are often incomplete, all of the ingredients are not listed properly, the nutrition facts are all wrong, what’s good for you is bad for you, what’s bad for you is good.  Some people, they’re like whiskey in a water bottle.  On the shelf, they look fine, healthy, good for you, but open them up and it’s like drinking fire for breakfast.  Other people, they’re just the opposite, water in a whiskey bottle.  On the shelf, they look tough, mean, the bottle a fuck-you shade of dark brown, obscuring the color fo the liquid within, big bold lettering, not to be sold to minors.  But, break the seal, open them up, and what you find is sometimes refreshing, welcome, sweet.  In a world where labels are incomplete, misleading or outright false, we have to be willing to open those strange, angry bottles and drink what’s inside, and also, when we taste the whiskey in the water bottle, we have to have the courage to give up that label, replace the cap, and put it back on the shelf.