Sunday Morning Was Once Saturday Night

“Christ.” I run my hands through what’s left of my hair, then down my face with increasing pressure. I breathe deep, forgetting for a moment that my head still rings with last night’s festivities. The numbness in the back of my throat jerks me awake. I grab for the half-full water bottle on my nightstand and finally finish something. Exhale, “thank fucking god.” My feet pivot to the floor, and I hang my head before reaching into the top drawer of that same nightstand. Perhaps this time I’ll find Gideon’s salvation. Instead, my hand comes to rest on the next best things. Packed together, Thing One and Thing Two and their ever-present associates Glass Spoon and Bic aka the Flick. “Good morning gentlemen, are you ready to do the lord’s work on this fine Sunday?” “Oh yes,” they reply. For it was weed and nicotine that saved my wretched soul.