how

in the fuck did this cup get outside my front door? i mean this raised some serious philosophical questions. who brought it there? did i will it there? was it chocolate, strawberry or vanilla? were there cheeseburgers or deluxes involved? what about their extra tasty double the fat tartar sauce? could they see their order through the grease stain in the bag? and more importantly why can't i find the magical non-existent Dick's, don't i deserve to know after all those years as a faithful customer? hell, my dad use to work there. i walked to the subway stop confused and missing my mother. i still have no answers. suggestions are welcome.

"boys...are you up there drinking on the roof again?"

kit-saa

if you squint just right

this looks like all the tall beautiful trees in my back yard back home.

more fact than fiction

hey how ya doin, i'm petah

sweet hallway from the get independent

gotcha

ahh gay

Get Independent

It really started on the third. One part backyard, three parts alcohol, and a dash of consciousness. We talked, we smoked, we tried to figure out how to crash the Poison tribute band practice session at the next apartment complex. Then we went to bed. We slept throughout bk only to be reunited in the morning. I woke up sweating again, thanks humidity. Yelled Marc out of bed and headed to the third’s. We had cereal and watched Robin Hood and laughed like little kids, “Crimanitly Trigger, point that pea shooter the other way.” Now to the kiddie pool. From the sky it would have looked like a sandwich in a bowl of water. Marc and I on the outside and Iz to the tanth power in the middle. Soaked up some sun then a cheese sandy and some Telemundo. Forza Italia. Off to the party with my country specific cons on. A melee of roof drinking ensues. I hit my head on a rusty screw, burned off a piece of my eyebrow and spilled lots and lots of wine. Even though I was drinking beer. Cooked corn, dreamt about filming porn and contemplated what I’ve accomplished since being born. Took a walk. Came back. Hit the long hallway again and thought about how I needed to write about it. Saw the first sign of sparkles and moved as close to falling off the roof as possible. Three fireworks shows later my eyes realized how open they had been all day and suddenly revolted. Getting home was a treat. Had a massive, almost pregnant like craving for pastrami and gladly bought some. Bye money. Passed the f*ck out. Thanks Uncle Sam. You too Uncle Visa and Aunt MasterCard.