My hands. They ripple, boil, and burst. Running them under the water, they bubble and splash and come apart and come back together. I laugh; scream; giggle; I'm not opening the door.
But I know they're out there, waiting for me, waiting to ask me why I took so long in the crapper, why I'm in here laughing to myself, why I took the last of the shrooms that were sitting in a baggie on the kitchen shelf next to the bottle of Patron. The answer: low impulse control. I couldn't stop myself. Not from that; not from chasing the bluish fungus with a shot of amber tequila and then half a doobie I got from Catherine, or maybe Jose. Goddamn it, they laced the shit with cocaine again and now I'm standing here with my fly open watching my hands dissolve in the sink.
They told me not to do it. I didn't listen. Now I keep washing and washing and I can't get it off, can't get it out of my pores. They'll all know. They'll all know. Yes, it was me. I stole the mushrooms, I left the tequila open on the counter, I ruined the office Christmas party, I smell like a liquor store that was recently turned into a Bath & Body Works.
And yeah...it was all worth it. Even getting fired and becoming an out-of-work marketing manager...'s assistant. Just for the look on their faces when they knew it was me.
I don't know what the hell that was all about, but it's part of the fun of Flickr Fiction Friday and inspired by this photo. Chris, Elimare, Teaandcakes, Littlegoat and The Gurrier are also raging party animals at this celebration. Click on the links to read their versions.