But I don’t know, that’s just that, that’s how it happens and the dudes all bring out the coolers and someone’s got a mini purple football with a tail that makes it whistle when you throw it. Someone says that it sucks that I don’t own a trampoline. I guess it does.
They’re all just hanging out in the backyard, some dudes by the washed out wooden fence with the creepy bush growing at the bottom of it are talking about something. And then over there on the saggy picnic table with the placemats that are covered in dead bugs a bunch of dudes are going on and saying something else.
Then there are some chicks scattered around, hanging out with lazy smiles, just living in the days of the heavy gel hair that got crunched up and put in a spiny wet bun ball on the top of the head, and the age of the terrible sad lady makeup under the eyes that glittered greasy like an oil spill reflecting a shitty night.
But I don’t even know how it happens or where these dudes come from, they just roll up and we hang. Then later they leave. Then there’s Crocs, too, who I’d never actually seen hanging amongst us in the back yard. She’s just sitting in this plastic lawn chair that has a broken arm and she’s got this red solo cup.
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