“You know what I’m talking about?” he stubbed out his Montego in the ash tray. It was half full of my Camel Crush butts. Tiny weed prints encircled the glass surrounding the words ‘Destin, Florida’ in cheap, tourist cursive.

“Yeah, I get it.” I sipped the last of my PBR and tossed the can into the red trash bin next to the fridge. We were participating in our usual weekly ritual: splitting an 18-pack of beer, chain smoking and complaining about the things we cannot change / bullshit from our past. I felt like we were in Hell’s waiting room, which happened to be a cramped 9×9 kitchen in Garrett’ one bedroom apartment he shared with Raoul, his roommate of about 7 years.

Garrett grabbed another PBR from the fridge and offered it to me. I graciously accepted. Sitting in the only chair in the entire kitchen, I popped open the can, gulped down what felt like almost half of its contents, and pulled another Camel Crush out of my pack. We lit our cigarettes in unison.

“That’s another thing, I get paid $12.00 an hour and I manage to do everything they ask, and they still yell at me. I’m basically Rodney Dangerfield, but less attractive.”  Garrett took a long drag of his cigarette in place of a sigh.

“I’ve told you this over and over, you’re way too smart for that job. You can do better.”

“Well, at least I can smoke as much as I want.” He stopped for a moment before hopping back on his soapbox. “But that’s another thing, I’m dealing with these neanderthals, day in and day out and my boss has no appreciation for what I have to deal with.”

I stared off into the distance past him, looking at the storm trooper doll in the windowsill. Same conversation every week. Same boulder we keep pushing up that hill. I had a dream not long ago. I got up to go to the bathroom and out of the living room I could see Raoul was having a party. Every time I went to go to the bathroom, the apartment grew, and the guest count swelled exponentially. I shifted my focus from the storm trooper to his weary face. Same kitchen, same bullshit.

“Anyway, did I ever tell you about this band, Fulci?” He pulled a video up on his phone. I nodded as I listened to an Italian Death Metal song blaring from his phone speaker. I was only about two beers in, not quite at the stage where my lying skills are at their most believable.

“This is good, I’d listen to this.” I made a half-hearted attempt to care. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it, I just wasn’t having the out of body, psychic experience I felt all music owed me.

Already done with beer number four, Garrett crushed his can and yanked open the fridge door for number five. I stood at the fridge door. A magnet asked me if I hugged my armadillo today. Another informed me that God is good because the accompanying image of a pop tart dipped in Nutella is undeniable evidence.

“I don’t want to celebrate Christmas this year.” I made the proclamation, as I started on beer number 3.