It disturbs me to think about how many nights I sat on this curb after work, smoking a bowl, when I could have been hanging out with my friends instead. It’s like I was determined to be alone. Like I wanted to isolate myself, and get high, rather than high five my friends at this party down the street. I could’ve gone. I know that I could’ve. But I was too fucking cool for that. So fucking cool. Because I liked to be by myself. And I thought that those nights would help me figure out the meaning of life. And I thought that if I sat there long enough, and got high enough, and snuck enough of my parents booze, I would figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing. Only now that seems like it was a huge god dammed waste. It was. Because there is no fucking meaning to life. Life is life. It is a series of things that repeat over and over until we die. And sometimes we get to have fun. But I turned my back on every opportunity to enjoy myself. And now I’m back on this curb. Older. More bored. And so disturbed by how many nights I spent here when I didn’t have to. Unless maybe it’s not too late. I stand up. I throw my bowl on the cement and watch it shatter to a hundred pieces. Fuck this curb.