One for the road.

Explosive, violent vomit. Fuck, who comes up with this? Open bar and secret Sparks are sure to be the death of me. Saturating my hair, nostrils and mind, I cannot control it. Amidst sobs and dry heaving, I fail to notice any commotion, anyone else.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" I can't make out a figure, let alone a face. My eyes can only focus on inquisitive Peterbilt, underneath my right arm, staring into the toilet simultaneously thinking along with myself.. What did you eat?! I have a vivid flashback to my insane, but lovable, sister telling me about her acid trips. How Jimi Hendrix abruptly showed up in her bathroom and she nonchalantly told him to "get the fuck out."

God, I'm desperate for this to be Jimi Hendrix.

I frantically click through my phone, perilously searching my drunk dials. Shit, fuck, oh god, why? Next time, remember to forget your phone - mental note.

I awake from an ever so groggy slumber. How did I get here? My bed is a safe haven that I know my feet did not lead me to. A faint silhoutte can be seen, wrapped up in my least favorite blanket on the floor.

"Umm.. did we?" I mutter, loud enough to wake the dead.

"No."

"Did I invite you over in hopes of..?"

"No."

"No offense, but why are you here? I thought I was talking to Jimi Hendrix!"

"Your brother called, he thought you needed a good friend. If you decided to let people in every now and then, you might have known that you really do."

Ashamed, aware and uneasy, I drift back into a heavy slumber. I need you.