I am so tired; I don't remember not being. I think I was tired as a child during the kindergarten stick horse rodeo. I have never not felt like something is trying to roll the stones of my eyes away and resurrect itself. I want to be more than a big purple ache for you, though, so how about a story?
We had this friend in our twenties—let's call him Mart. Mart was the proud owner of a handlebar mustache, a style he was very possessive of. I once saw him eat chicken wings with rubber gloves on and then ask for a wet wipe. Another time, we all got stranded at the lake when he went back to the car for his throwing knives and then locked the keys in there.
Mart told us he'd been invited to a party and extended the summons to our whole gang. At this point in our lives, our main activity was going to Chelsi's porch and drinking from the case of Hamm's that lived there, and it was thence that we'd convened when Mart made his announcement. The party was right down the street, so we followed the twink to his destination, arriving at the home of a very confused man with a bun, a sweater, and one beer in the entire place. Mart took the beer and took his shirt off and we stood around like six lead weights dragging down any sexy atmosphere our host had attempted to cultivate while admiring the horse art in his home.
Mart didn't look like he wanted us to leave, but after 20 minutes of standing around and trying not to exist, we migrated back to the porch without him. "He'll be fine," Chelsi said, and it was easy to concur. He always was. I think it was Dane who first mentioned the jockey's home decor; either that, or it was Dane who named him the jockey, but I know he had some hand in the proceedings.
Chelsi did keep texting Mart, which I suppose was only fair, since he was one of her many pet men. If we knew a man you could kind of just assume he was between ten and fifty percent in love with Chelsi at any given time. She collected these men like pigeons in a hutch and no matter how many times she sent them off on a date or go work their barista jobs, they always flew back to her. Finally, the Mart pigeon texted and said he was ready to bail, and Chelsi and Nick went to meet him halfway. Everyone was running, which is something you can do to make your night more exciting during slow times.
Mart came tearing down the sidewalk with Chels and Nick and vaulted onto the porch, a conspiratorial look on his face, and told us his tale.
Evidently, he had picked up none of the jockey's sexy signals and only took his shirt off because he felt like he should. He did have a habit of simply showing up places and becoming topless, so that tracked. After we left, he stood around making more conversation, then slipped away to go to the bathroom. While he was there, he swiped a prize, which he brandished before us—a dusty crumb from what had likely already been a tiny and stale nug of weed. A nano-nug. A micro-nug. Maybe enough to get a lizard high.
Sorry to the jockey. We did not even attempt to smoke it.
