Horton-Scorton
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Apr 29, 2008
- Messages
- 110
He had amassed so many records in his time that it was getting physically stressful to move from one spot to another in his room. On the other hand, it was kind of comforting, all the stuff, like an attic retreat in childhood, or a hideaway cozy fort.
I whip out my weed and he eyeballs the valleys and crests of purple and orange. Under microscope, the nugget looks like a healthy forest on a distant planet. I told him I wasn't kidding when I said it was good.
"I'm nicknaming my new piece Venus" he states proudly, and adds as an important afterthought loudly "and it shall be christened today, baptized in the colorful nuggets you arrived with" And he greedily rubs his hands.
After we smoke for twelve minutes I ask him "what are you listening to these days?"
"bourbon soaked country and blues" he responds lighting a cig.
I have to say it.
"I'm glad we can still hang out like this, you know. It's sad that...thing...with, you know...herrrrr....caused a rift in our friendship. But to hell with her, right? I know our friendship is worth a lot and we are both honest souls...so I wanna repair it."
He doesn't say anything, just takes drags off his cig. I sit Indian-style, baby-faced, nervous. He says nothing still.
Then he starts to browse through all his records so intently that it's as if he's blocking me out. He flips through the sleeves, peeking and squinting and nodding. Goddamn I am alone. But not as much as him.
"let's light my records on fire, burn em" he says.
He is serious.
He starts getting piles, armfuls of vinyl and I help, lazily, hopelessly stoned.
"then I won't think of her, I'll be so upset my twenty years of collecting is ruined, then we will try and mend this thing. That girl she's a black widow" he sobs out like an alcoholic thinking about mommy. I miss the guy I'm with, you know. I miss her more.
I whip out my weed and he eyeballs the valleys and crests of purple and orange. Under microscope, the nugget looks like a healthy forest on a distant planet. I told him I wasn't kidding when I said it was good.
"I'm nicknaming my new piece Venus" he states proudly, and adds as an important afterthought loudly "and it shall be christened today, baptized in the colorful nuggets you arrived with" And he greedily rubs his hands.
After we smoke for twelve minutes I ask him "what are you listening to these days?"
"bourbon soaked country and blues" he responds lighting a cig.
I have to say it.
"I'm glad we can still hang out like this, you know. It's sad that...thing...with, you know...herrrrr....caused a rift in our friendship. But to hell with her, right? I know our friendship is worth a lot and we are both honest souls...so I wanna repair it."
He doesn't say anything, just takes drags off his cig. I sit Indian-style, baby-faced, nervous. He says nothing still.
Then he starts to browse through all his records so intently that it's as if he's blocking me out. He flips through the sleeves, peeking and squinting and nodding. Goddamn I am alone. But not as much as him.
"let's light my records on fire, burn em" he says.
He is serious.
He starts getting piles, armfuls of vinyl and I help, lazily, hopelessly stoned.
"then I won't think of her, I'll be so upset my twenty years of collecting is ruined, then we will try and mend this thing. That girl she's a black widow" he sobs out like an alcoholic thinking about mommy. I miss the guy I'm with, you know. I miss her more.