Mary-Jane

I just drove five hours straight, but even in my tired state the blog calls to me.

I arrive at my grandma’s place at 11pm and head straight to the pantry seeking out a two litre plastic bottle of tropical punch. I pour a tall glass mixed with cold water from the fridge and taste the comfort of a childhood I should have had. My grandma keeps her cold water in an old plastic cordial bottle, she cares not for the bpa free trends of the city. 

I have a shower and wash down my banquet of anti-depressants with ice cold punch. My mind wanders to thoughts of Mary-Jane Rottencrotch and that one fateful summer night atop the haystack.