“You need to go," Azalea pushed me away. “Why?” "You're a god-damn AK. You shoot, shoot, shoot." "You're not making any sense." "Fuck you, Clever." "My name's Kyle." ——————————————————————————— *Something was wrong when she first came back to the apt. This wasn't a surprise to me. Phena was well aware, she found her* ——————————————————————————— You just didn't want to say anything imperious, trite, condescending; you didn't want to rage on Ona with Azalea who clearly has had a life before yours. You did not want your arrogance to remove the mask you've so cleverly crafted over your self that, before you had even sipped the coke on ice as you crossed the Atlantic, the coke your friends had given you to keep you up on the shrooms they had you eat before you boarded that flight, so you'd show up clear, seen, and ready for the European experience with your beautifully exotic Ona's sex along the shores of every country, in the mist of every party, along the times of training your dream to teach Ona the delicate nature of the consistent psychedelic experience you had mapped out for months in your bedroom at home. Scientifically micro dosed amounts of various mind-altering substances...figured out when you could read, when you could still comprehend a stop light, interact with a teacher, authority, your parents, your father who knew you were experimenting, but didn't know how much; unaware of how far you thought you'd go. You knew very well that Ona wouldn't let you do more than a dose every ten or twenty days, but that you had other plans, and if you had to start dosing her to drive her deeper into a dependence of decadence you knew what awaited your twenties with her and that we needed these last teen years to make mistakes, nearly die, climb on each other's backs across the canals, and fester the plagues that had previously spanned the European landscapes with a darkness so criminally bottomless that they could only paint it Black. So, you came, you saw, you fucking lost the plan, scraped it, foiled; foiled by the Latin fuck lover Alejandro who in return gave you the freedom to roll into a sybaritic lifestyle without her, alone, without the worry of destroying the bond we found in the high school halls when your sexy Spanish exchange student lover was yours all yours, not fucking some six foot plus, uncoordinated, boring, stalled orangutan's chick. She was my girlfriend not yours. You want all the credit, but none of the glory, Clever.