I tousle my hair in my mild insomnia-infused hangover. Eyes reduced to narrow slits, I adjust to the stingingly bright All Saints’ Day noon sun hitting my porch where I was sleeping.
Vague memories of seductive buttocks juicy as an overripe peach and wide enough to spill over both sides of a chair seep through the misty haze that once was my brain—the reminiscence of a wild tryst.
A content smile—until I see the orange carved fruit, backside sprayed with congealed white streaks above a hole labeled ‘insert hallow-weenie here’.
“That’s it, no more LSD,” I mutter to myself.
