When you wake up everyday you get dressed and head on out the door. Part of the dressing is putting on your gigantic bag of bullshit that you carry with you through life.

Your prejudices. Your worries. Your fucking baggage.

One of the benefits of only being two is that big fuck off bump on my head hit the reset button. So my bag of bullshit is only full of two years worth of judgments.

And it weighs 93lbs.

Ninety-three pounds of fucking Dumb.

When I finally come to out of this fog I'm in, if I turn out to be a hippie, I'm going to fucking shoot myself.

Angel's Bar and Grill's resident flower child is Clover. I'm sure at one time she was a nice enough girl, full of ambition and chutzpah. Now, however, she is just a burnout, a beggar of the forest.

She flops somewhere nearby. Al and Gloria, the married meth heads, say that they always see her passed out at Michigan's. Michigan is the neighborhood pusher, so I'm sure Sally and Clover earn their dope the old fashioned way.

Everyday around 3, Clover comes shuffling in. Invariably in a peasant blouse and skirt. Mitch fucking loves her because she doesn't wear a bra and you can see her areolas. I spend too much time watching lice or scabies falling from her.

"Hey man, spare some food?" That's her hello.

"I'm so faded man..." That would be her cached response to any question.

"Hey man, you holding?" That's her invitation to sex, well according to Rog, Mitch, Al, and Sally.

She smells so fucking bad. Patcholi does not cover up the aroma of waking up in your own vomit.

Her skin flakes off constantly. Little tendrils of scales drift behind her like chaff on a summer's day.

When she was sixteen she took some bad acid and thought that Xycak the Fire God was attempting to make love to her. In reality she was hugging and flaming piece of wood. Her body went into shock and she fell face first into the flames. Both arms and half her face are charred, twisted and angry.

She smells like ash and dirt. And desperation.

I always giver her some of our "nacho platter," at no charge. "Nacho Platter," being doritos with cheese microwaved.

I'm a softy, I suppose.

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So I have this Nooner named Mitch.

A Nooner is all the regular customer who come into the bar at noon to get drunk with the sun.

Mitch is a Vet and he fucking tells you every single day that he is a god damn VET.

He's also a Son of a Bitch. Hence Son of a Bitch Mitch.

Can after can of IC Light he pours down his stinking gullet and always melancholy about the war. Mitch is a fucking bummer.

"Things happened man, things I can't even speak about. They live inside my head."

Mitch is also a sex predator. He got caught on that hidden camera expose at some 13 year old girl's house in fucking Altoona of all places.

He says he only like little girls if they are Asian. Something about good times in Da Nang.

I don't know why he would think I would want to know that.

Mitch is a cranky pederast. The first words out of his mouth are curse words and the last words are racial slurs. He got kicked out of the American Legion in Middle Hill for that.

I still serve him though, why not?

I don't remember a fucking thing about my life, maybe we were best friends. Fuck if I know.

Everybody deserves a chance to escape. Everybody.