“The Stagehand”

“Great—now the shrooms are kicking in” I had forgotten that I had taken them— and it had hardly been in a memorable amount so that I didn't expect them at all to do anything; I had found them cleaning Brandon's room in an opening behind the fridge—it was at best, a gram, a couple caps and some stems, the powder debris from what may have once been a mentionable amount—but still, having now fasted for the better part of nearly two weeks, and distraught upon returning back to of course, puddle of dog piss and a sink full of dishes that had not been touched in over a week, and were now rotting— But now, here I was, within a proper earshot of John Legend belting out a song that had been implanted into the back of my skull by the mainstream media—almost unaffected by anything hit the stark confusion of l my second night working as a stagehand for Desert Labor, I didn't quite feel out of place or entirely too high, actually—just chilled enough to relax, not entirely out of body but at least out of mind enough to not be mad that I wasn't the one on stage. “At least i'm here.” It felt good to be in all black, for at least a moment, before a handsome bearded man—the “lead”, whose name I had already forgotten, handed me a shirt in my favorite color blue. “Can I keep this?”, I asked—excited to have scored a other mmm sleep shirt, probably an XL or larger that would have fit me snugly not too long ago. (I fucking love free shirts.) My heart was racing—there were beautiful men everywhere—just the kind I liked, all sleek and dressed in black, some of them greying in a silver fox which I had started to dream of…