Twenty-sixth Find of the Meaning of Life Scavenger Hunt

Wake up frantic. Not quite a panic, “it wasn’t real,” let's applaud the undoing of ten years of therapy. Appreciate the sheen, never know what it means. ‘never needed to’ lost file of the wishful thought police. Night of wisdom without a character arc that has a bark with no dog of origin. Friday night in—fine here we go---

Times are strange, clocks count up beyond our range. Fox gone mad, better fit is still in a barn. Reach for the sleepers, gone wrong once but, dozing off, saying “NO WHAMMYs.” Sure, creeped by the last witching hour sour mood display leaving a redrum warning, but as the story goes, ‘too slick to be a sucker.’ For a product that rhymes will champion, it morphs you into anything but. But skip the champion's dose, we’ve learned, take the ride on the slow boat. ‘Wait—where did I leave that prescription?’ Suddenly drift off into—

WHAT THE FUCK—AHHAHHH.

It’s 03:37 in the morning, warming up the Pony’s driver seat. Full tank robbed to E, parked in three spaces. “HOW?” Did I win any of the races? Breath is cutting nose hairs as I pant. Breath can’t be caught, laces damming the circulation, wish I could deny the vague elation. ‘or explain it.’ Ripped off the gripping bandana mask, smells of three or four finished flasks. Gloves, too tactical for the Californian coastal curves. I’m unbuckled, panicked—wearing blacker than I remember owning, and is rubbing my skin down to the raw nerves. Skid mark smoke fades as the home lot comes into an unconscionable inclination, ‘feels like I’m returning from vacation.’ “whose blood is—Where have I been? Where the fuck is the fucking phone—” Problem solver put me on the fence as Monday seems to be spell it N o W a y. The change of attire makes more sense, larger point stays outside of ballpark fence. “first, I brush the teeth, pop the pills, and set the alarm—FIFTY-FIVE HOURS?” Two hours till clock-in.

Epilogue of sorts, brief meeting between of two former cohorts retired to our separate shores, over her former weapon of choice. “NO. Tea, thank you.” Recovery’s a bitch, and the 5.0 Stang is holding together a loose arrangement. Either could lose a little derangement. Hot tea destresses the tension, war stories get gory, laughter even draws attention. Got the most deathy death stare with my second tea order. Playing hopscotch with delight and horror, then there's that one gone missing in the sea. “what the hell—fill me in.” The pause comes with pulse-timed drumline, thumbs gripped the edge of the mug, she barely shrugged, ‘was it the drugs?’ pestering, questioning, morally “a missing weekend with you isn’t a joke—” The rage in her mug slam was from years of safe cracking, sending a splinter up the side, no need to worry the staff of the collide. Yet. “your ride to the airport is leaving soon, there’s no time for this game. You should be thanking my snitch-less-lips, but it’s a god damn shame. I’ll just accept that you can’t, just be glad you still know your name…”