Memories Are Hazy

I don’t know why I remember munching on junk food in my backyard at midnight. More so than that, how do I remember? I was high. We all were. Myself, Jude, Daniel, George, and my brother. We performed the established cultish ritual of packing bowls and passing my brother’s dirty glass bong around in a circle while trading stories and laughing at each other’s accepted stupidity until we were sufficiently satisfied. With the effects of the plant having kicked in, we receded from the smoke-filled garage that was originally built in the twenties to cover horse-drawn carriages from inclement weather and proceeded to the kitchen. Fortunately, my mother had gone to the grocery store earlier that day so both the pantry and fridge were well-stocked. My brother and I told our friends to help themselves. Most were gracious and took small items like Goldfish or Oreos but not Jude. Jude was both gluttonous and indecisive. When he eventually joined us at the picnic table behind my mom’s forest green California bungalow, he had with him a bowl of Top Ramen, a bowl of ice cream, and a bag of Cheetos. The rest of us listened in astonishment as he attempted to excitedly explain in his typical rapid-fire tangential style that always made us question whether or not he had a mild case of Tourette Syndrome how the combination of foods he placed out before us actually complimented one another. Whatever we thought of his decision, he seemed to enjoy it as much as we all were enjoying each other’s company. That was a good night. That was a good summer.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.