It’s a Good Thing He Scored

Timothy was sitting, as he often does, next to the window reading a book. He expected to finish the book and then shower, after that he was prepared to phone a girl he knew and ask if she might be interested in having coffee. Timothy did not drink coffee, but he understood the necessity of neutral ground in regard to social interaction. Other options included a restaurant or a bar, however he abhorred eating in front of anyone and he didn’t drink alcohol so the bar seemed a poor fit. Timothy did drink juice and water and occasionally milk, but the only real vice he had, if it could be called a vice, was marijuana. He reveled in the sensations provoked by the THC. He felt that this alone saved him from being utterly vanilla. The book he read was a lengthy tome of which he spent the better part of a weekend poring over. It involved an architect and his radical individualism; which prompted him to destroy his creation to keep it from the evils of socialism. Dry and unapologetic, the book was remarkably good read and left him with a sense of his own immense power.

As he finished his book he noticed the slight pang of tension behind his eyes and rose from his chair in response. The creature behind his eyes quickly took hold and tightened around his forehead. Phantom shapes obstructed his vision. The light around him was striking his eyes with snake-like ferocity and forced him to his couch more falling than sitting. He lay back unsure of where this demon was coming from. He hadn’t experienced anything quite like this ever and felt as if maybe he were being struck down by some divine entity. The coils around his ocular nerves pulsed and grew and he feared that they might snap like rubber bands from the strain.

He breathed as calmly as he could and tried to assess his condition. Generally Timothy could feel them coming. This fiend in particular snuck up on him. It started as a mere bud, a tightness, and blossomed into a kraken. With his eyes pressed tightly closed he reached for his sunglasses in what could easily have been the longest walk ever from his couch to the coat hook next to the door where his coat pocket was occupied by his stylish and quite urban sunglasses. He fumbled at the pocket dropping the thing to the floor in the process. They weren’t there, Timothy let out a moan accompanied by the recollection of his leaving them in the car nestled between the roof of his mustang and the sun visor.

He gave up with his quest and sat in front of the door one hand covering his eyes and a defeated slump to his shoulders. He pushed down to lift himself from the floor. His hand landed on a small metal case, he stopped, lifted the container and tried to identify it without opening his eyes.
The metal had an odor to it, a sweet tangy odor that made his heart swoon. He was lifted up by the serendipitous realization that he had scored the previous night. His mind quickly jumped to Glaucoma; which was eye related this was an attack on his ocular nerves so perhaps he would deal a killing blow to his unwelcome visitor. He quickly ministered to the pot loading a small pinchie he inhaled the smoke and let the THC work its alchemy. Slowly the nightmare receded as a full-blown high marched across his body like a rampaging Mongolian horde, but instead of carnage the byproduct of its onslaught was a plush gore and strips of yarn strewn like party streamers.

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