!He’s Making Me Noodles!
My dad walked into the kitchen, “that smells dangerous,” referring to the flourless chocolate cake Mikayla oven placed. Grinding up loose leaves and shake from a season of trim work, I was investing my talents in the creation of a blunt cake. 30 tightly rolled jazz cigarettes, little body changers, sentinels with the eye on top, twisted and looking towards the sky. Rolling operation with shake and grinders everywhere. I felt like I was talking to someone while stealing from them. Talking to my Dad about jobs, plans, ambitions while licking and staring and creasing and rolling the last of 30 joints. All in a mason jar with no top and immediately spilled across the Acura floor. Left one for him while he turned the Comcast on to watch an animation movie about a lost dragon.