Disclaimer: I am in no way promoting the use of illegal drugs or underage drinking or what have you. Nor am I promoting hatred towards a group of people who look, dress or act a certain way. These characters are fictional, as is the story. The views expressed by said fictional characters are fictional as well. It's all fiction.


"What is it about these pretentious teenage poets
that sets them apart from everyone else in the entire world;
What is it that makes them feel so special they get the urge
to spend all their time and energy convincing themselves
that they're different from the rest of us freaks?"

His words lingered in my mind for a moment. I pulled my travel cup half-full of Cuban coffee up to my lips and muttered,

"What indeed."

We were staring down a couple of uppity-looking kids who looked to be no older than 15. There were two of them -- a boy and a girl. The two of us had been sitting on a bench in a grassy park, waiting for the people to clear out until these two foppish creatures slithered in and plopped themselves down on the bench opposite ours. Sean shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hugging his shoulder bag tightly to his chest.

"I wish these assholes would just leave so we could smoke."

There were trees and hills everywhere. We could have casually 'gone for a walk' and hid in a ditch. I doubt anyone would have noticed, or even cared. The only conspicuous item in our possession was Sean's bag. It wasn't that strange (now that I think about it) but, at the time, I thought he was a complete moron for bringing the damn thing. It was a small army-green shoulder bag that had a picture of Bob Marley, his left arm outstretched toward an invisible crowd and his right hand holding a microphone to his mouth and singing. If you weren't up close, you probably couldn't even tell who was on the front of the bag. I suppose, though, that you can never be too careful when you're carrying around stuff that can get you thrown in prison for at least a year.

'Jesus Christ, what in the hell were you thinking, Sean?' I thought, my brows furrowing without my permission. 'Of all the bags to carry a bong in, you had to pick the one that advertises the fact that we like pot. Brilliant.' I was so ridiculously paranoid. 12 year old kids walk around with Bob Marley shirts -- doesn't make 'em potheads. That thought hadn't occurred to me, though. All I could think about was that these idiot hipsters knew. They had to know or they wouldn't have stayed so long.

"I don't get what's up with these people. Bitch is sitting there on a fuckin' laptop.
The fuck? Why even bother coming to the park if you're just gonna get on the computer?"

"I know, man. It's so ridiculous. I bet they're only here to fuck with us, man."

It's safe to assume we were already pretty stoned. We were driving around, smoking out of Sean's one-hitter when I spotted his bong in the back of the van and we concocted this brilliant plan. I used the word 'brilliant' in a sarcastic way, for those of you who haven't been paying close attention. The two of us sitting in a public park with illegal drugs and drug paraphernalia, baked to the point where our faces were numb and waiting for two people to leave so we could break more laws was the furthest thing from intelligent. But whatever -- we were high. Isn't that always the story, though?

The thing about being high -- there are different kind of highs depending on the person and the plant. On what Sean and I were smoking, my friend Mark gets pissed (most often at the Government,) my brother likes to do math problems and cook and my cousin just gets a bit hazy. I get like the stereotypical stoner; every feeling, emotion or sensation turns extreme. Sober, I'm content or annoyed or sad. Stoned, I'm fucking euphoric or violently frustrated or so depressed I can't move. Make sense?

At this moment, the sight of the girl with her brightly colored flower-pattern skirt, ruffled socks with frills, white buckle shoes, light pink collared shirt with a white vest over top of it was bringing out a level of anger in me I didn't know I could feel towards clothing. The apple with the bite mark in the corner attached to the front of her laptop had begun to represent everything wrong with the universe.

"So fucking pissed, man."

"I knoooow, I wish they would just go awaaaaay."

"This bitch's outfit is pissing me off. What is it with hipsters? They dress like my grandma."

"I dunno man. Do you think we should just go back to the car?"

"...Nah."

There was no way in either heaven or hell that I'd have given up my mother Earth to these prissy little shit-birds. The two of us were gonna smoke in the park if it meant we had to sit there all damn day. Sean sighed and his tall, gangly frame slumped lower in his seat. I glanced at Sean, then did a double-take. He had the most amazing complexion I had ever had the privilege to witness. Pale as a ghost with tons of freckles spread like butter across his cheeks and short, round nose. I imagined God taking Sean's pointed chin in his powerful hand, looking at the face of his creation and saying 'Hmmm...could use some freckles.' The image of God opening a jar of freckles, dipping a butter knife in them and spreading them across Sean's face was forever engraved into my mind.

"Oh sweet! Dude, the assholes are lea--what are you doing?"

Sean was looking at me like I was insane. Can't really blame him, though. I didn't even realize I had slowly been leaning towards his face the whole time. Our faces were, at most, 5 inches from each other. Yanking my face back, I casually replied,

"Your freckles are fascinating."

"Pfff, you creepy stoner. The hipsters left so we can go smoke in that ditch."

"Oh wow, I didn't even notice. Those hipsters, they move like fuckin' ninjas, man."

Sean chuckled, then hopped up and walked towards the ditch. As usual, I followed behind, disregarding any possible consequences of our plans. I was a senior in high school, seventeen going on eighteen. It was the point in my life where things like logic and responsibility were going to soon be thrust upon me, whether or not I was ready to handle them. Oddly enough, up to this point I'd been acting like a mature adult. The thing that bothered me was that I'd not been able to experience the fun of acting like a punk-ass kid. I figured I may as well act like a teenager while I still had the chance....and, somehow, being minorly irresponsible was the most responsible thing I could've done. At least, at that moment it was.