Hold My Gum

8:30am: I awake in the dusty garage that serves as my bedroom. The smell of sour beer cans and cigarette smoke permeates the air, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I attempt to smoke marijuana resin from the pipe that I’m positive I’ve sucked dry the night before. With some persistent effort, I score a thick, throat searing cloud of smoke. Nice. I sit back and relax for what feels like thirty minutes. A winner has begun his day.

8:34am: My new next door neighbor has just arrived in his shitty blue Thunderbird. I just don’t like his car because it looks like it’s homeless and has been in prison for sexual assault. The two of them actually look a lot alike. He is bearing a 12 pack of beer and has stopped by to introduce himself. He explains that his girlfriend has broken up with him and that he’s been up all night snorting copious quantities of cocaine. He says it’s probably for the best that they break up because now she won’t be scoring cocaine for him anymore. I explain to him that I am working at 9AM and that I’m beyond thrilled that we get the opportunity to be an enriching part of each others lives. First impressions are key.

8:38am: We have negotiated that I will drink one beer with him before leaving for work and then he will go get some sleep. That sounds fair enough. I had planned to take it easy today. One pre-work beer is no biggie. I want to get my laundry done today and just rest at the house. It’s going to be nice to relax for a while.
8:45am: I have had three beers and a cigarette while persistently reminding myself that I don’t care for cigarettes because I don’t. I only smoke when I drink. He has asked me if I would like to share his last bit of cocaine. I have accepted my new neighbors gracious offer in order that we might be more… Neighborly.
My neighbor and I have agreed to the following:

• Start a punk band in which he will obviously be the singer due to his not owning one piece of his own musical ability. He would like to play punk stuff that still has some, “sweet leads”. He has proudly declared to me that his favorite punk band is Genesis. I have a suspicion Genesis may be the only band he is aware of.
• Move to the foothills of Alabama to grow marijuana and live on deer jerky, forever
• Make our own wine from all the fruit we could drive around and find in grocery store dumpsters. We will sell it at %100 profit because there is no overhead.
• Turn the animals loose and rob the zoo amidst the chaos. We immediately realize that we could probably rob something more lucrative than a zoo, but that the zoo animals would still be a good distraction pretty much anywhere.
• Try to hit that dry, resiny pipe again.

8:50am: I have decided to leave for work and my neighbor has decided he will meet me there to drink at the restaurant bar while I work so we can hang out. I leave on my bike by myself, but luckily for me instead of meeting me there, my new pal follows along next to me in his thunderbird at bicycle speed so we can hang out. He rolls down the windows and blasts Genesis at “please don’t be my friend” volume. Luckily I ride my bike on neighborhood streets on the way to work. I do this to avoid the main road that goes by my ex wife’s house. This prevents me from violating the domestic violence protective order.

9:02am: I have arrived at work without incident at a time my boss has aptly named, “almost late.” I have it on good authority that time of day is also known as, “right on time.”
My neighbor has pulled down his own stool from the bar to sit due to the “lazy ass” bartender having not set up yet. He waves hello to me and asks the opening manager when it’s, “cool to get a drink.”

9:32am: I have had a cup of coffee and prepared my work area. I had not seen a kitchen manager up to this point which is curious. I decide to check the schedule and discover that the days scheduled kitchen domineer was the renowned push-over, Ostrich-man. The ostrich-man likes to take a nervous look around for a moment just before he finds a place to be alone and put his head in the sand for a while. This practice is often referred to as “Working on the schedule.”

I decide to go smoke a bowl of the shitty weed my co-worker sells.

9:35am: As I walk out of the restaurant I see my neighbor at the bar drinking a beer. This establishment does not serve alcohol before noon on Sunday. None of the opening staff seems to notice or care. They also seem oblivious to the fact that we don’t serve that particular beer in a can. After the door shuts behind me, I take four steps before my new best friend pops out eagerly behind me. I shouldn’t have looked glad to be going somewhere. Point duly noted.

9:36am: We have arrived at the small, hobo-made clearing in the brush that flourishes happily during the summertime on the abandoned railroad tracks behind my job. Like clockwork, the carrot I fashioned into a pipe is still in the tree where I had left it the day before. You may consider a carrot peculiar item to use as a pipe, but I don’t like to carry a pipe with me while I’m going to and from work and the aluminum foil has started giving me a persistent itch in my throat. I reach in my pocket and realize I had forgotten my weed somewhere.
I’m sure I put it around here somewhere. Luckily my new best friend is also holding.

9:45am: I have gotten high with my neighbor in a forest-hobo-grotto and discussed:

-That air smells of urine here, likely due to all the hobo piss
-Whether or not it would be “weird” if I went to get him some dope from his estranged dealer that doesn’t like him anymore.
-Why I still feel excessively spun out from only one small bump of cocaine
-That it’s not cool to give people cocaine that you find on the sidewalk to “test it out”
-That we should do a little more of this strange powder to help decide what this crap actually is. In the name of science.
-A pact is made that neither of us care for methamphetamine, but we’ve got some and we’re going to finish what we started. He was tricked. Then he tricked me. Let’s see who else we can drag into this web of deceit.

It’s time to return to work before someone notices that I left. I return to my work area and retrieve my bag of weed from the prep table where it has luckily gone unseen. Ostrich-man has not yet felt a rumble in the ground.

2:00pm: Thanks to the magic of amphetamines torturing my heart and altering my brain chemistry, I feel like only twenty minutes has passed. My day’s work is complete three hours earlier than usual. I look like I went swimming in my clothes. The Otrich-man has commended me on my excellent work today and in his infinite wisdom, granted me a “half day”. Being an exemplary employee is tough work.

2:01pm: I sit down at the bar where I work and politely wait for the bartender to serve me my hard earned shift drink. The drugs have worn off and the insane passage of time has inverted into a low gear, steamroller crawl through time.

2:27pm: The bartender has finally figured out that my presence at the bar for the last half hour has not been work related. He begins to pour me a beer and turns to restock his cooler.

2:39pm: In an obvious attempt to make me upset, the bartender made me watch him let two gallons of beer pour into a pint glass and down the drain without even looking at the tap or the glass. He turns back around to close the tap and hands me a tall glass of hearty, lager based foam. When my glass settles, the bartender agrees to top me off. I can’t imagine that he is actually that terrible at his job. He must be fucking with me. I curb my amphetamine-withdrawal-fueled frustration and begin amusing myself by asking the nearest busy waitress to get me a shot of bourbon as a favor. Now I watch the race and see which irritated coworker delivers first.

2:52pm: TIE GAME! I choke down a shot of cheap bourbon. The distinctive flavor indicates it was aged in a dry-rotted oak barrel that once contained crude oil and flavored with the freshest clods of regurgitated stray cat hair that South Detroit has to offer. I wash back my shot with the lager I drink for free at work. I can tell by its vibrant flavor that It’s ice brewed in Iraq using only the most expired hops, hand picked barley mites, and blessed healing water direct from Asias yellow river. I relax for a few minutes and allow the alcohol to fill its proper brain receptors before I make any further attempts at tolerating reality. Time to hop on my bike and head home to rest.

3:30pm: I have arrived home for a recovery nap to find my neighbor on the couch where I would be sleeping. He’s smoking something off of a piece of aluminum foil through a dis-assembled pen while playing air drums. I ignore the thoughts provoked by the memory of locking up when I left this morning, and ask him very politely for a little time alone to relax. I also make it clear to never play Genesis on my stereo again, ever. He agrees to go home after, “some guys who owe him some money” stop by. It should only be a few minutes.

4:30pm: I wake up recalling the coveted memory of my neighbor about to go away or maybe having just been an unnerving person I dreamt up. The sound that awakes me is him greeting “some dudes who owe him some money.” and Genesis. While I regain consciousness in an irritated stupor, I decide at my neighbors’ request that I will smoke a bowl of “Dan’s badass weed” for being such a “good friend”. Considering our friendship now spans eight hours I realize that I have been a pretty good friend so far. I’m under the impression that I may be my new neighbors only associate.

6:30pm: It has been fifteen minutes and somehow two hours slipped by while I listened to my neighbor and a couple dudes that owe him some money chat about life. Memorable topics discussed by my new comrades include:

-Is there a factory that makes those little glass crack pipes? Is it weird to be a person who works at the crack pipe factory?
-Does sickle cell make God a racist?
-Pants.
-Was I tricked into smoking more meth when we smoked that weed? I am jacked up! Did I just drink like 14 beers?
-Yes.

6:45pm: I know that I should feel angry about my new confidant deceiving me, but for some reason I feel really great right now. The guys want to know if I feel like eating some free magic mushrooms at their house tonight. I hadn’t even had the chance to pretend I have a prior engagement before my neighbor assured me that I will be just fine because he’s going to be there, so I’ll absolutely have someone I can trust around. Sounds legit.

7:45pm: We have arrived at a house after visiting the grocery store for water, smokes, and a loaf of bread. When I inquire as to why they were buying bread I was told there would be, “Bread related mischief.” The four of us have arrived at a house and opened the windows to release the huge cloud of amphetamine smoke lingering in the house. It made me choke and cough immediately. It also immediately increased my heart rate, my urges to commit violent crimes, and my dependence on chewing gum. We are now seated in a comfortable, trashy living room with no less than a dozen severed straws strewn across the coffee table. I have made a new personal rule. The drugs straws in my house shall never, ever outnumber the power outlets in any given room. My host makes me a gin and tonic with some leaves floating in it and reminds me that I should just take it easy. It would be a lot easier to relax with a drink that didn’t taste like old 9 volt batteries boiled in a sick cats’ piss with some mint leaves in it.

7:55pm: After some light chat about how “solid” my new buds think I am, two grams of magic mushrooms are placed in my hand. After eating them I sip my awful but free drink and decide to start writing about my day.

9:00pm: I have been writing for an hour using an intellect that is warped by what I have just realized is the grip of an all day methamphetamine bender and mushroom trip. Mushrooms are starting to make me feel pretty screwy and the amphetamines have got me a wildly confused about writing my whole day down while catching up to it in real time. I will now re-read and take a mental health break.

9:40PM: I watched the cursor blink for the last two minutes while the last forty minutes have actually passed. Good break.

9:38AM: I have regained the motor skills to use a keyboard and returned to my garage. I am angrily fed the remaining three grams of mushrooms that my neighbor gave to me as a parting gift in order to celebrate the awesome times we shared while we were friends that one day. I’m already excited to shit them out. I decide that since we have been high on meth and tripping for 24 hours now, I feel comfortable asking his name. I didn’t ask out of actually wanting to know it, but from growing weary of typing the word “neighbor” repeatedly. He calls himself, “Big Sonny.” At his request, I read to him what I’m writing up to this point. I read it aloud several times before we both decide that the rest of the night was also so depraved that no one would really believe any of it. Might as well jot it all down so the world can bask in the enlightening wisdom of my intellectual forays. I’m convinced it will be a prudent step for my career in avoiding political office and being marginally entertaining to a marginal amount of people.

9:45PM: The mushrooms are now in control. Looking for something to amuse my racing mind, I find that a coffee table covered in cut up straws and scorched light bulbs is not too impressive to look at when your tripping. I have also decided that I don’t want to talk to Big Sonny or guys who owe him some money about quantum physics right now. I’m confident that even when added up together, the three of them still have a questionably low IQ to be discussing that kind of thing. I won’t throw out names or numbers, but we can safely call their collective intelligence, “Borderline-Presidential” at best.

10:15PM: Big Sonny is now turning the conversation from quantum physics to something a bit lighter that everyone can enjoy; Motorsports. Not very stimulating for me, but it was nice to see them discuss something that they can fully grasp without wasting a lot of time grunting in frustration at those thin, inky things that books are stacked full of. Why read when you can just ask people who already read about stuff to tell you about that stuff?

11:38PM: I’m just starting to settle comfortably into this experience and zoning out a bit. Everyone has been quietly staring off into to space for an hour and a half. I’m beginning to feel a little less skittish about taking LSD while drinking cheap tequila in a meth lab. The cat that lives here is starting to be less skittish about me being here as well. I can feel The plume of thick, yellow, awful smelling smoke that was here when we first arrived wearing off. I can safely assume that the kitty and I were both feeling a little edgy when I got here. Things have definitely started to wind down a little since the cloud was released.

12:52PM: It was clear that Big Sonny was having difficulty enjoying his portion of the pleasant silence around us and that he was also having trouble perceiving that we are all only a few feet away from each other. I could tell by the subtle way he broke the silence to begin releasing a rectum clenching guttural roar that would have woken Ms. Keller from her grave to wonder where the fuck she was going to hide now. Not only did the sheer animosity and the volume of the roar force a drop of urine out of my body, His words were so elegantly spoken that they demanded at least a whole squirt be released from everyone who was present, “HOLD MY GUM WHILE I SMOKE THIS MEEEETH!!!” We all make the reflexive startled turn and look to bear witness to Big Sonny looking right at me, holding out a huge wad of chewed up red gum. The look on his face says, “You better hold this fucking gum. Right fucking now.” I wasn’t exactly sure how to say, “no” to a gray, leathery, mullet draped pile of gin blossoms and elbow skin that looks like an inside-out latex Halloween mask that’s been through a dryer cycle with a handful of “dying skin” colored markers before it was stretched over a dented space heater that gets way too hot on one side.

I choose to hold the gum.

Big Sonny takes a long and laborious rip of thick smoke from his light bulb and sits down. I gleaned from the smell that Big Sonny had found some kind of new feces-based plastic that also gets you high when you smoke it in light bulbs. He smells like a sulfur truck that crashed into Michael Moore’s unwashed asshole inside of an old warm refrigerator that’s melting on top of a chemical spill.
I have not seen Big Sonny look this happy as long as I’ve known him. I feel all warm and fuzzy. I should probably sit down.

1:30am: After some convincing arguments on the part of my borderline mentally disabled compatriot, I decide that the stuff in the light bulb looks like it might be fun…. Again.
I decide not to skip myself in the next round of meth smokin. If I had asked, I’m sure I could have probably picked up a hipper phrase for it than, “meth smokin.” Moving on. The pipe has come to me and much to my displeasure, Sonny will not hold my gum in return. In all honesty, I just wanted to see if he would do it. He seems visibly upset that I am not affected by his failure to reciprocate the favor. A guy who owes Big Sonny some money agrees to hold my gum for me. Luckily I see that his fingernails are fashionably sporting shades of yellow ranging all the way from “light lung butter” to “mahogany whiskey piss” just in time to dictate that I will be leaving the gum in my mouth for the process. No hard feelings, Guy who owes Big Sonny some money. I am now totally certain I don’t care about amphetamine etiquette and manners whatsoever. Who the fuck needs another grown man to hold his gum so he can smoke drugs? WEAK!

1:45am: Meth makes your chewing gum taste like a burning tractor tire filled with satans vomit-soaked pubic hair, and cinnamon. In retrospect, I should have let that guy who owes Sonny some money hold my gum. I’d wager at worst his fingernails only taste like dried up dog shit.

3:00am: I spent the last five minutes chatting online for an hour or so. The guys are “rollin’ a bowl” (Smokin meth lingo, I asked) and ripping on me for being addicted to social media.

4:00am Social media has run out of people who want to listen to the important thoughts that people need and deserve to hear while I’m high on meth and mushrooms. I think I’ll ask one of those guys who owes my good friend Sonny some money what his name is. I ask the shy, quiet guy who owes my neighbor Big Sonny some money for his name. He giggles, a little too coyly for my comfort level with strangers on narcotics, and answers my question.

4:30am: The first soldier in our perilous quest has fallen! Slick has fallen asleep in a chair while we were just getting better acquainted, a little rude, but I’ll let him slide. It stands to reason that it would be hard to hold the attention of someone with a name like slick. Had I learned his name sooner I would have avoided even trying to hold the attention of someone so eclectic, captivating, and malnourished. Sonny shouts a reminder into Slicks bony, unconscious skull affirming for certain that he’s a pussy for passing out because it’s only been 20 hours. I wonder what kind of people smoke this stuff for twenty hours aside from Big Sonny? Shit. I guess I just did, didn’t I? Had he been up smoking meth hours or days before we met? Before I was born? At some point I just gotta go home and do some normal human stuff that you can’t do while you’re on this shit, things like breathing without effort, remembering to blink often, or even trying to swallow some food. I suddenly recall from the incident earlier that Big Sonny has poor vision and difficulty with peaceful silence. I politely make him aware that Slick is sleeping and not an actual, huge pussy. I was gifted in that moment another rare gem of thought from Big Sonny, “He’s out cold but his brains probably heard it anyway. Your brains never stop listening to stuff.” I can see that spending time together has pushed Big Sonny to hone his critical thinking skills.

4:45am: My new pal has respectfully granted me the permission to call him my friend as well as just, “Sonny” from now on. At last, we can finally be casual about stuff. I have agreed to correct any “Sonny” that is missing its “Big” prefix prior to this point in this piece in order to keep it chronologically accurate. It’s very important to my good friend Sonny that this piece is accurate. I just couldn’t bear to spread slander or libel about a truly loving and considerate friend like that. I don’t ever want to make my new neighbor and good friend Sonny feel like I portrayed him in some way that makes him look like a bad or inferior person.

5:00am: A guy that owes my good friend Sonny some money has agreed to pack a bowl with marijuana before he, “cranks down for the night” (I like that one). Odd we came this far and pushed ourselves to the limit so hard just to end it with smoking some weed.

5:15am: I have now come to an understanding that I would have reached much earlier had my mind been screwed on correctly when I started this adventure. I now understand that these people smoke everything with an added little touch of meth. I have assured myself that this would be the last time I am fooled into smoking narcotics by my neighbor and good friend Sonny. I decide to strike up a conversation and get to know a guy who owes my good friend and neighbor Sonny some money while My good friend and neighbor sonny is making sure that guy Slick isn’t dead. Slick looks like he needs a good night’s sleep, a Gatorade, and a jolt from the defibrillator. A guy who owes my good friend and neighbor Sonny some money has casually decided that he’s going to, “give Slick a lift to the E.R.” This phrasing strikes me as odd because he’s made it sound like Slick had asked for a ride somewhere. I can tell by his utter lack of body language and blue lips that he’s well beyond the capacity to ask for anything. Not too slick.

6:00am: A guy who owes my neighbor and good friend Sonny some money puts Slick into the back seat of his car.
Slick has released his bladder and bowels during the transfer from The sticky kitchen floor to the mildew laden Oldsmobile floorboards of a guy who owes my good friend and neighbor Sonny some money. I’m absolutely certain that Slick will not have any more bad drug experiences after this. I’m also fairly certain that Slick is dead. Taking your own life on purpose, that’s just quitting life. Overdosing on meth and dying is more like getting fired, isn’t it?

6:30am: I can’t help but feel a little bad for being so callous and insensitive back there. I just realized I never asked The other guy who owes my good friend and neighbor Sonny some money his real name. Dick move. I utter a brief eulogy in loving memory of Slick,

“Poor guy.”

Sonny then releases a mixture of a loud snort and what I believe were the words, “fucking idiots”. I could feel the snorted remark hit my chest along with all the remaining felony laden boogers that were clinging to the inside of my good friend and neighbor Sonny’s nose. The front of my shirt now looks like someone used a coffee stirrer to shoot wads of sun ripened mayonnaise at me. The boogers possessed an odor that was also much akin to aged mayo laced with the stuff that builds up next to your toenails. My right hand man, Sonny, notices one particular specimen that he had wanted to stay inside of his putrid, bleeding sinus cavities. He looks at my shirt as if the image of Darkwing Duck had stolen his drugs and then told him to go to hell. He swipes it from my chest with a quick and slightly hostile single-fingered gesture. There was no actual sound, but in my mind it sounded a lot like a developmentally disabled toddler blurting out the word, “mine!”. My good friend and neighbor Sonny likes to eat his own fetid, stinky boogers off of my chest. It’s our thing.

7:00am: Sonny has informed me in a gruff tone that resembles blame, “that booger sucked ass, let’s smoke”, I’d love to smoke weed with my good friend, but I will not be blamed for returning crack-boogers in scratched or dented condition. As far as the law goes, those balls of “funny phlegm” became mine the moment they nested into my shirt fibers. You should be grateful I gave them back for free. Sometimes I think my good friend Sonny is a little bit selfish. I will not be tricked into smoking this shit another time, so I remember to politely refuse to smoke weed with My good friend and neighbor Sonny. “You wanna smoke more speed then?” Now that I feel like I’m back in total control of what the hell I’m smoking, I can relax with a cold beer and smoke meth because I want to.

7:45am: After a few cold ones Sonny informs me that we are alone and that I may help myself to any booze or food in the house. His treat. Was this a guy I called selfish earlier? Nevermind. We finish our beers over a focused session of opening and closing the fridge repeatedly. “Yes, Sonny. I’m absolutely positive the light turns off when the door is shut.” My compadre reminds me to stay logical, cleverly noting that, “You can’t see inside there with the door shut, and if you really think about it, there is really no way of ever knowing.”
I’m unwaveringly proud that my good friend and neighbor Sonny has started to take a shine to philosophical reasoning.

8:30am: We have cooked every shred of food in the house because Sonny says, “He doesn’t give a fuck, he can get more.” Unfortunately, we are also completely blasted on crystal meth and decide to throw the food off the roof to see if it makes cool splatters because there’s no way we can even try to eat right now. We can’t just let all this food go to waste in good conscience.

8:40am: Cool splatters indeed! I offer to help Sonny pick up the driveway, but when I mention the mess he just reminds me of the ancient Mongolian proverb, “Fuck that stupid ass shit.” I believe Sonny just claims that this is an old proverb to sound more educated but I have not looked it up to be certain.

8:45am: Reality has re-entered the same orbit as my thought process and I feel the mushrooms in their final throws before being completely metabolized. I also remember that Sonny is my new neighbor and have become slightly concerned about whose place we are still getting wasted at by ourselves. I ask Sonny if it’s cool that we’re here. He tells me it’s really no big deal about the food and booze getting completely finished off, but that it may be a good idea to leave this house before Slicks folks get back in from morning mass at 10.

9:00am: My neighbor and good friend Sonny has agreed to give me a ride home. I reluctantly take the ride accepting that I may be blessed enough to enjoy Sonny’s charming intellect for a short while longer. Weighted against a two hour walk, I’ll take my chances with Sonny.

9:22am: I have invited sonny in long enough to, “Smoke a bowl before I go to sleep” I wonder if Sonny will be upset by me saying we are going to smoke weed and it turns out that’s what we actually smoke? Sonny want’s to know if he can crash here for a few hours. Why not? We’ve been up late. Let’s sleep it off, buddy. I am now questioning if he was maybe fibbing when he said he lived right next door.

9:30am: I have now asserted that I’m goddamn tired. I have told Sonny to do whatever he likes as long as he leaves me alone to rest. Sonny has explained to me, that for some weird reason, he’s had the hardest time sleeping lately and that talking to himself as if he were two different people until he falls asleep helps a lot. No big deal.

9:35am: While I pretend to be in a deep sleep, Sonny decides he will talk to me anyway because I’m obviously sleeping so deeply that his lovely smoke and liquor scarred voice will surely deepen my restful nap into a coma like state. While I laid there quietly fantasizing that I was now dead, my neighbor and good friend Sonny and I had a discussion on many topics. Luckily my old friend knew me well enough that he was able to execute both sides of the discussion and just say what he knows I would say in my stead. We discussed the following topics by himself:

-He enjoys The feeling in your hand after accidentally falling asleep on it, but only for a minute so it’s just tingly, but doesn’t really hurt. I am told I also enjoy this now.
-If I eat the same thing all the time, would my poop always look the same? Sonny fancied that I would suggest that he, “Try it on.”
-How do they get the smell into those cans of smell you put in your car?
This was a tough one with a complicated answer involving hooking up vacuum cleaners with good smells in them to tin cans and then setting the vacuums in reverse to fill the cans with the smell. Then you just have to close it up really quick before the smell leaks out. Sonny got a little frustrated while first trying to grasp the idea, but after we explained it to himself a few times over, he understood completely.
-Whether or not I’m “faking asleep” because I’m totally not breathing like I’m asleep. The decision was unanimous. Sonny agrees with himself that I’m faking. I agree as well, but continue with the ruse to protect my sanity.
-Sonny would like to listen to music, but he is “not sure what he likes things to sound like.” Sonny decided that I think he likes World Music and “Fiesta”. I am aware that “Fiesta” is not an actual genre of music, but will remain in my faux slumber instead of correcting anyone. I think he just means the stuff they play in Mexican restaurants. It seems Sonny has smoked away the part of his brain where Genesis was stored as he has forgotten about them completely. There is actually a good kind of brain damage and my good friend Sonny has discovered it. I imagine he has discovered several other varieties as well.
-Whether or not I was still feeling those mushrooms at all because we can definitely eat more if I feel like it.

After spending a few minutes deciding if I feel like it, I sit up and agree to eat some more mushrooms. I would rather be confused than coherent for the remainder of the time that I must tolerate my neighbor and good friend Sonny. Sonny claims to have only offered me mushrooms to see if I was really sleeping. He’s highly upset that I pretended to sleep. I explain that I was pretending to sleep, but that I wasn’t ignoring him. I assert that I was just pretending his voice was an entirely different sound. It has for the first moment ever, occurred to my neighbor and good friend Sonny that I may not treasure his company with the eagerness I once did.
As long as I have known Sonny, I’ve never seen him this mad.
My neighbor and good friend informs me that I haven’t got a hair on my ass for not allowing him to just “chill here for a few days”. We never even discussed that, but no. Never. I’ve got all the hepatitis’s and a fetish for using other people’s toothbrushes. You wouldn’t like it here. I’m now positive Sonny is neither my neighbor nor my friend as he throws a sandwich bag full of mushrooms in my face announcing that I can just have them because he can get better mushrooms anyway. Even though he was mad at me he still took the time to say something really nice on his way out, “And I thought you were a cool dude. Have fun eating all those mushrooms by yourself, then.” He just always has something positive to say. I will enjoy the mushrooms. I think I’ll eat them and write all this shit down right now. I only regret that I was promised bread related mischief that never occurred. I also wonder what ever happened to that guy who owed Sonny some money? That guy was alright.