I have nothing else to do, so I decide to cat-sit for my friend. She is a doll, everything a hipster should be and I feel like the karmic cash-in for sitting her cats would be off the charts.
She lives about an hour and a half away, so I hop on a bus and start reading some Murakami. As we pass through the highway, I watch the trees blur by and realize we’re just driving through a forest. Every highway journey is just a whiz through the woods.
The bus is empty and I am feeling adrift, so I stuff the bus receipt into my book and pull out a small ball of tin foil from my pocket. It takes me a good minute to properly open up the ball and inside there are two tic tac sized sheets of paper.
Worm Acid, my friend called it when selling it to me. He explained it was like a wedding tradition. “It’s synthesized with something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.”
I press my thumb onto one of the squares and then nonchalantly suck the hit off of my thumb. I think nothing of this as I wrap up the other hit and put it back into my pocket. The next minute I am asleep. Whenever I’m sleeping on a bus ride, I dream of bacon. I don’t know why, but this bus trip is no different than the rest. My dreams flood with bacon. Bacon that can talk, bacon that can dance in sync with other strips of bacon. I even dream about a bacon philosopher with an existentialist background.