Observation of the Drug Dealer Girl
    Self medicating had grown harder since the summer drug busting spree the Magnolia police inacted. Every last one of the dealers she knew were redundantly reusing the same phrase over and over again: "it's dry out here." Fortunately, she was a economist and had learned to keep a reserve. 
    Immediately after being sprung from the prison of Biology lab, she'd picked up a caramel latte` and sipped it as furtively as a nicotine addict emerging from a 3 month budget cut. Sipping the drink kept her from growing irritated too quickly as she tried to remember where exactly she had stowed away todays' dime bag.
Her room resembled the mess of a feature on the TLC channel's show, Hoarders. It hadn't been cleaned since the last time she couldn't find her Steve Madden pumps. Papers and binders, dirty clothes and pizza boxes mixed together in aroma to create a slightly homely stench that she felt, gave her small dorm cell character. In medias reas of beginning the search party for poor Mary Jane, a short knock fell on the heavy door and in swung Shenaid, Her self appointed best friend. 
    "Bitch." She addressed Her- because that is the acceptable speech when two live girls were close enough to lie to everyone that they were cousins and share tampons. 
    "What's up, Whore." She said without even looking up from the jewelry box she was sifting through.
    "Nah, the question would be what the fuck is up with the smell in this room? Was the last time you cleaned this room when I lived in here too?"
     "Nah, the night of the African party actually. Hey, do you remember where I put that kush I got from Justin?"
Shenaid moved into the room, leaving the door wide open as she did every time when dealing with her friend's awkward and unnatural room smells. She turned up her nose and pushed aside a few bras strewn on the bed to make room for herself. Tall and solid, she looked strange perching on a limited space of cushion. But, she was used to it. 
    "Ooh, latte`." She commented, plucking up the cup from the wide countertop so that she could steal some. 
    "Shenaid! Dude, Kush? Where is it?" For the first time, She turned to face her friend. Shenaid shook her head dissaprovingly. She was strongly opposed to any weed smoking since her brother had gone to jail behind a distribution charge. Funny, one of her uncles had spent a few nights in the slammer over bootlegging to college age kids, but she still always kept a bottle of Vodka in the top corner of her mini fridge. 
    It was balled up in that candy wrapper remember? You put it on top of the smoke alarm in the hallway."
    "Right." She realized her mistake and tossed down the jewelry in her hands and moved out of the door.
In the room, Shenaid observed the mess, noticing a condom wrapper a little too near her foot for her taste. A part of her couldn't help but roll her eyes at her disorganized friend who was just as clumsy and reckless with her day to day life. The bookshelves were littered with loose papers and notes. The crazy thing was that Shenaid never kept all of her class notes assigned to their own notebooks. She usually just picked up whatever paper was in view when it was time for class and went with that. She never studied, and most annoyingly: she actually had the nerve to cry when midterms came around. 
    When it came to guys and dating, She was very liberal and as free and rushed as the winter wind. Shenaid had no doubt that She had lost count of her flings and short lived relationships. She seemed to think promiscuous behavior was typical for the modern day university student and had no immediate plans to settle down her hormones any time soon. Every bootycall that Shenaid caught Her in was supposedly the last, along with the drugs and the excessive drinking and partying on nights before 8:00 classes. She acted as if she were completely oblivious to the derogatory comments people made about her, and sometimes Shenaid suspected that she actually was, but even if she had spotted the cutting eyes of judgemental females and the jokes that guys loved making, Shenaid was confident that she didn't care. At least she was who she was, and no one could fault Her for it. 
    Rushing back in, She was visibly happier. Her cheeks were rosy, which Shenaid didn't know could happen to a black girl, but Her complexion was bright brown and allowing. It was a feature that drove all the males at the university to take notice and turn animatedly as she swayed quickly across campus, always late for something. Guys marveled at her lackadaisical and confident walk, while the girls sucked their teeth or laughed about her wanting attention. She never looked their way- infact- she never looked anyone's way as she stroked the ground with her heels, tossing her bouncing hair weave out of her face. She was never aware of the attention, no matter whether it was negative or positive. Sometimes Shenaid was convinced that She was in a world of her own at all times. If She werent, Shenaid was afraid, the real one would inevitably eat her alive.
"Aha, right?" She pointed at the bag and nodded. Shenaid counted the seconds it would take Her to break the entire pinch of weed down into a blunt and toss the leftovers back in to be saved for a toke off her beloved wood pipe. 
    "Doing it wrong." Shenaid commented as she watched her friend rotate a cigarello in and out of her mouth, wettening it to prepare to be torn apart. 
    "Um, how?" She raised her eyebrows in disbelief that Shenaid knew anything about rolling blunts.
    "Gimme." She was handed the soggy paper, ripping it between her thumbs like a pro. She was instantly reminded why they were friends.
    "Aww, She`, you're so diverse."
    "Whatever, nigga."
Shenaid finished cracking open the Swisher and dumped the mess of tobacco onto her friend's crowded desk table. SHE rolled her eyes at Shenaid and swept the debris into her palm.
    "Party at the African's tonight." She noted lackadaisically. It was now Shenaid's turn to twist her neck and roll her eyes. She never approved. Plus, she knew that an African party automatically demanded a new outfit, which meant that She was about to drag her along on a shopping trip with their gay best friend, Bryson. "Square?" She suggested. Shenaid sniffed out her girl's simple invite like a frat boy sniffing the armpit of a strewn out teeshirt.
The square was what their little town equated with the mall. It was a literal square of over-priced personally owned stores where everything up on display was sparkly and loud. Shenaid had never found use of these sort of places, that sold name brands at full price even when out of season. But somehow, She always siffed through the wreckage of small town living and managed to pluck small, rough diamonds out of the muck. Her style was always unique. It was what She was most hated for: her inability to simply just blend. 
    "Hell no." Shenaid insisted. She flashed her the puppy dog eyes and pretty smile.
    "You're honest as hell. I can't have Bryson there saying I look good in everything."
Bryson had the terrible habit of being that homosexual guy relentlessly infatuated with the word "fabulous". Everything that She did, he thought was spectacular. Even it was a mess, according to him if it was Her it was a "hot mess". Shenaid supposed that it was true. "Pleeeease?" Her whines were

She had money. Shenaid knew she did, still there She was, tucking the little ball of cannabis folded in a sucker wrapper into the pocket of one of the muscular legged volleyball girls. They'd given her twenty for it, which made Shenaid laugh. She hadn't known that her friend had any capacity for deception. But at least she wasn't a static character in life, like some people Shenaid knew. She smoked pot more than any girl Shenaid was sure anyone knew; like a bare footed hippie- and sometimes she put on high waisted fading flare jeans with mud stains caked onto the hems, a mirror faced tube top and embroidered head band and played the part perfectly. But still, she didn't just sit on anyone's couch with low eyes and start conversations about how shitty her day at work was...it just wasn't her style. Even if she was on the couch, she was stretched out, legs in broken positions, shoulders arched back so that the skin stretched like elastic, defining her prominent collarbone. She'd be balancing a cigarette or a spliff between her middle and index finger with an expression across her face that made her look full and empty all at the same time. Like the clothes and jewelry she'd dig out in the Square, she was a diamond embedded deep in buried rock. But you could see it from miles. There were so many thoughts in her, that seemed to flicker across the pool of her light brown eyes like the writing on jumbo screens in Time Square or a flashing, igmatic flourescent OPEN sign on the front of a darkened Chinese restaurant.

She flashed Shenaid the twenty bill and smiled her flawed smile. 
"Its pretty shitty shit but they'll get off on it."
Shenaid shook her head.
Bryson entered the cafeteria, where the girls sat- she had her legs crossed over eachother on the chair next to her. His walk was proud as the over zealously decorated pockets of his hundred-twenty dollar jeans. His leather Sperry's brushed against the cheap short haired carpet with a sound that began to entrance Her. Shenaid snapped her fingers at him.
"Now don't have me in the damn store for three days."
"Uh, bitch. Did you take your Motrin this morning?" Bryson swung his neck as he spoke, almost to the exact rhythm of his eternally elevated arm, which was always positioned like a bag should be hanging by his elbow.
"You look lovely." She said to him. He swung his neck again and Shenaid was reminded of a door with a broken hinge.
"Thankyou, baby. As usual you look to shrivel up and die for."
She bit her lip. "Come on Shenaid, come and smoke with me. We can't stay in the store forever cause I gots business."
"Just use a condom." Shenaid retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.

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Short Story
writing dsr
One tear in a bucket, fuck it.
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