My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "I'm just saying, you could be a slutty gym sock." "How." "If you cut holes in all the right spots." "Fucking how." "Just wear all white, dude! And make yourself look all ratty and old and stained. But show off that midriff." "Dude." "And accentuate the crotch." " Dude!" "I'm just trying to help you out, man! You said you needed costume ideas." "And the idea you jump to is a slutty gym sock?" "Hey, man. Strawberry basil margaritas can kick you in the head like an abusive soccer player." "Wha - okay. Look. No socks. No sluttiness. Just throw out some generic concepts." "Ew. Boring." "John." "Boring! You can't be boring on Halloween." "Sure I can. Watch me." "No." "Get me a white sheet. I'ma be a simple ass ghost." " No, Aaron." ...

I wasn't going to lie: I felt absolutely excluded from my group of my friends in recent days. Maybe it was because of the weed, or the booze, or the fact that my car had broken down. Maybe I seemed useless to them. I had lost my value. I had been a valuable tool in the box, and now I was broken and battered. So much for any sense of friendship circle. I sat down in front of my computer and opened a can of soda. Alone.