“Trump is a scumbag that no one I know would trust to watch the dog,” Thorsten said.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Yeah, so when the whole piss thing came out, I said to my mother, ‘the question is not whether he did it; the question is whether anyone would believe that he could do it, and the answer is yes.’”
“Yeah, she’s cool.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You wanna smoke Chem Dawg?” I said.
“You got anything else?” he said. “That Chem wasn’t so strong last time.”
“You’re right. I have to talk to my man.”
“You have anything stronger?”
“Okay. And Chem.”
Anyway, we both went home an hour later.
That night I had a horrible dream. It was about some squirrel I kept in a wooden box. I felt so sorry for the squirrel because in the dream, I had been the captor. You can take a lot of shit in life, and you have to put up with a lot of shit, but when you’re a captive squirrel in a wooden box, it’s totally fucked up.