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calmSomehow I go through the supermarket and get the necessities that were required, i.e. fried chicken and a sandwich (90% of my diet consist of fried chicken or roasted chicken). I get another 12 and try to stuff the two pounds of chicken, a twelve pack, a sandwich, a dozen donuts (they were on sale) into a bag obviously not large enough. The cashier stares at me hard and long.
I skate over to the convenient store to get smokes, realize the chick shorted me a ten spot, or I had dropped it (highly unlikely in my constant state of poverty I put myself into). I shakily skate back to my place. I unload my gear and then begin to drunkenly comment on my friend's facebook (my facebook), and start drunkenly chatting on instant messenger (VisceralRush on aim). Normally it would be drunk-dials but regrettably I have not the means to settle the outstanding debt with my phone carrier, which means I had to settle for digital harassment instead of oratory molestation.
Time passes, I start smoking in my bedroom because the roommate was off doing what ever closeted homosexual, car-freak, racists, douche bags do with their free time. This left me with the ability to sit comfortably watching my tv shows via hulu.
Time passes as I bask in the warm glow of my freshly cleaned room, with fresh clean linens wrapping my bed and all my clothes cleaned, folded, and put away. The chaos that consumes me feel to the side as I did my job on the second twelve rack.
I stand at his door, swerving a little from the booze, "Hey! You in there!?". I receive no response and try the doorknob which is locked, as always (he always locks his door when he leaves yet the ps3 and large screen tv sit in the open with full access...what's of value in his room and why does he trust me so little? I have wondered that since the first time he unlocked his door.). I look around for no real reason then decide that I am going to break in, he doesn't trust me, I will give him a reason nut to.
I shot gun another beer and realize the other 12 is now dead. I grab my lock-picking tools (a safety pin and a paper clip) and go to work, the cheap lock gives up quickly and I saunter into his room. Nothing of any interest or value that I can see. He has a private bathroom that I enter, still hoping to find a q-tip. I open up cabinets, a selection of cologne I find, "dakar noir...classy, walmart must have been having a sale on cheap-ass lame cologne that nobody told me about, shucks."
I rifle some more, opening a drawer, open another, and anoth-"Oh my god! Fucking drugs!" I found his stash hidden in a drawer in his bathroom. My attempts at reading the label were a slight failure, but I ascertained that they were in fact painkillers. I slug one on the spot, chase it down with a beer. I pour a few into my hand becoming aware through my drunken haze that after 15 hours of drinking a hangover is pretty certain.
Shambling back into my room I throw the ill-gotten pills onto my cleaned dresser and went to work on my remaining six pack.
...This is what I do with my free time.
