vicodin and things catching up with you.

he was sleeping, sprawled out on the floor, under a web of computer wires extended taut across the room. his cell phone was next to him, open, next to piles of papers and books that littered the floor around him. how he managed to fall out of his chair and land under the wires, onto the only relatively empty floor space available, would remain a mystery. a few hours earlier he was driving. a pretty girl caught his eye on the side of the road and he honked his horn. "hey where you going, you need a ride?" he said to her. "hi. no it's ok, i'm just heading over here," she said pointing across the street. "well i can't drive you there," he said, laughing out loud at himself. "you need to call me," he said before he drove off through the already green light. she smiled and sort of nodded. when he first met her she was strung out on cocaine. she told him she heard she could go to vegas and make $700 a week as a prostitute. she wanted to know if he thought it was a good idea. he didn't. he would later joke to strangers about how much more she could have made with how pretty she is. joke, in a true, depressing kind of way. he was sleeping, sprawled out on the floor, under a web of computer wires extended taut across the room. when he awoke, he blamed some medicine he took. but maybe it was life, just wearing.