An Eighth…

It started as a small pile that eventually had gotten split up into seven or eight neat lines. An eighth of it was laid out on the table, to be exact. I had already been sitting in the same spot for hours and getting up wasn’t a priority to me. My eyes were blood shot red and low as fuck. But the only thing on my mind was to get higher. Regardless of how high I already was and how many blunts I have already smoked, rolling another was the only thing on my mind. And so i did. Hours past along with days. Three days to be exact. Sitting in the same spot. Not getting up for anything that wasn’t food, more weed, or the bathroom. My phone, lost between the couch cushions, and my mind mind was probably somewhere with it. I could tell I was disconnected for the weekend. Answering my phone, along with text messages, seemed useless if it wasn’t the man hitting my line telling me the deals of the day. The deals didnt matter anyway. I already knew what I craved for.

“An eighth please and not a minute too soon!!”

For three straight days, I smoked when I woke up till I fell asleep. Everyday a different eighth along with a different high. It felt like something like euphoria but I didnt ponder in it or any problems I had at the moment. The only thing that was important was that eighth sitting infront of me for three straight days.


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