Never purely salt, or sweet, but something brackish altogether. However the concoction, wherever the majority lies, is a mixture regardless.

Exposed for something but not deflated.

She speaks but no one understands what she says. I resorted to stuffing my face.
He hits his bong and puts it down on the living room table. And scratches his head.

Who was this woman?

More like a badger, who has been smoked out of his hole, I want to be a moth to flame; oblivious to the sneers and snide remarks made by schmucks for he breaks through to the other side. It seems though I may never match up. Nor lay my eggs between the seams. The scent of the burning weed shifts to rice krispies treats. An aroma most inviting. It occurs to him it’s in his head.

Finally he comments on her smoking device. Pointing to the aesthetic of a baby size liquor bottle, calling it nifty, but to herself it was just a crack pipe. Smoke drifts from the bowl and it reeks like ‘Old Roy’. He thinks. “I’m not gonna sit here and watch you throw your life away.”

Misophonia. The gargling of the bong drives her mad. She speaks on the obvious. “Nice mouth wash.” He squints his eye. Despondent. “Come again?” he begs. She is responseless. “Special girl.” He jokes. Being facetious. Probably thought I’m winking, he thinks. He truly believes she is an idiot.

He thinks of the piss christ. “If drowning is getting pissed on, I am drowning in your urine.”

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