Help

I called Laura and left her a bunch of messages.  I remember that.  I remember doing that much.  I don’t think any of them made sense.

When she called me back the sound of the ringtone was unimaginable.  I literally jumped away from my phone and hid in the corner.  There’s a disease where people suddenly get deathly afraid of mundane things. 

It took me three hours to get the balls to listen to her message.  When I tried to text her back my hands were shaking so badly it took me a dozen tries on each word.  I told her I needed her friend with the Quaker Oat hat.  I told her there was something inside of me.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door.  There was no way it could have been him,  it wasn’t even an hour later, but I wasn’t thinking straight.  When I opened the door it wasn’t an old guy with a doctor bag and a Quaker Oat hat.  It was a middle aged scrawny douche in skinny jeans and a shirt without sleeves.  He looked the kind of guy that spends half an hour shaving his face to get the look of artful stubble.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked. 

He leaned forward to look in my eyes “Are you on meth?  What is wrong with you?”

Good fucking question.