The Mess We Made

The Mess We Made

He came down the steps with as much motivation as he went up with.

Nothing had changed downstairs, he knew it was still a mess. But what did he expect, really? He messed up. They messed up. It was all kind of messed up.

As he made it to the bottom step and his foot hit the cold, beer-stained linoleum only one thought crossed his mind: we need weed.

He made his way through the jumbled mess of beer bottles, spilled drinks, overfilled ashtrays, and strewn about furniture to his phone, miraculously still on its charger.

He had to smile because he knew nobody would fuck with his phone, he at least had that much respect around here.

He went to his recent contacts and called Alicia. She had an eighth on the way.

Now to deal with the mess he made last night.

He knew he had to figure something out before everybody starts coming to, and he wasn’t even thinking about the living room mess right now.

-D.R Breshears

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