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.

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