After coming down from you various highs (and lows, har fucking har) and mourning the death of your origami friend you find yourself on the road again.
You ponder for a while how your life came to this point. What started out as a trip to clear your head turned into a drug fueled cross country nightmare on a bad stretch of highway that never ends. Sure, everyone dreams of running away from it all, but here you are, shooting up speed in a bathroom that hides its glory hole behind a lenticular portrait of Jesus.
Your life has gone to filth, but it’s your filth. Authentic Dumpster Aesthetic, hand made and thrown out the window by a glassy eyed tourist near the world’s biggest ball of twine.
You decided to keep a diary at some point. The pages are a smear of bad choices and strange faces. There’s a stack of receipts, faded and threadbare, that tell the tale of some of your travels. The rundown strip club with the surprisingly good omelettes, the music festival the you’re pretty sure was held in an active junkyard, the thrift store where you found a surprisingly startled stuffed deer head that became your best friend until you traded him for a taco.
It was a really good taco. You hardly even miss Jeff.
Yes, your travels have brought about a lot of strange tales to tell. A collection of items and memories that would be suited for the big screen, well, the big screen of a porno theater, maybe.
Fucking sticky floors.