There aren’t many things cooler than just watching.
At first I thought it was a dream, the knocking at the door. But then I remembered I’d left the gate open, my cell was on the floor next to the couch dead, there was no clock on the cable box and once the sun was down there was no telling 10pm from 3am. The Remy martin 1738 and ambien had me knocked out since six, I could hear the doctors voice in my head telling me Michael Jackson died from trying to find rest in his sleep with the wrong combination but it was just two pills and two glasses.
Rubbing my face, tasting the dryness of my tongue the knocking at the door wouldn’t stop, it wasn’t a dream. Looking out the blinds I saw her car, parked behind my truck, clean has usual, her passenger side tires on the grass. That told me she was tipsy. the…
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