Thursday, April 10, 2008


Anxious for a walk, the dog woke him at 2AM. The ghost of her laptop was present, looming heavy in the room. Having swallowed the last of the evening's gin, he rose and pulled a pair of trousers from the mass next to the bed. Four hits of acid wrapped in a Hot Dog Beetle receipt fell to the floor. After purchasing the acid from his brother four months ago, they were saved for a special occasion and eventually forgotten. He tried to remember the first time he dropped acid but was unable. This lack of recollection negated a shared experience with many of his peers; how many parties would he attend, sitting through anecdote after anecdote, before he created one of his own?

Then he wondered how many of his peers were lying about their first time. And if they'd even had a first time. How would he know? If worse came to worse, he could talk about tonight. The trip:

the dog threw up on the sidewalk
it was a Pagan Holiday
it was a thriving moustache river

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