This is the part I hate most, I think. It reminds me of my brief foray into the world of crack at 15, and how smugly sure I was that I'd never wind up on my hands and knees weeding crumbs out of the carpet to administer to myself. How- in desperation- every little piece of crud becomes a potential barge to salvation: can I smoke this? sure, it's a fleck of popcorn but it won't kill ya. . . can I smoke this? nah, better not. its consistency is alarmingly similar to drywall and the taste confirms it. I made fun of our friend's little brother as he begged his elder for a taste of the ambrosian-smoke Dave still had stashed away. I'll give you a six-pack, I'll pay you 50 bucks on Monday. . . "Please Dave, I'll suck your dick," I mocked Mike because I was 15 and knew everything.
Conclusion of Survey- God, I need to clean. This place is getting seriously disgusting and I need a neutral backdrop for spotting leftovers from whatever leads into I.C.S.#7154.