ello, jello

I drove myself to the gas station after six white claws at a policeman’s house party. His wife, a nurse, watched me and laughed. I should try her margarita mix next, she said. I left them and their stupidly large dogs sitting their hot tub. The cashier asked me for my ID. I smoked my first whole cigarette that night at the park near my house. Not a spliff. Not a single drag of some European guy’s outside of a bar, nor a menthol shared while crouched in the corn. I didn’t share this one. And I didn’t share the next one, either. I shouldn’t have driven home.