Rowbotham Theory

One

My father liked to spend his past time preaching the words of muffled microphoned men on YouTube, broadcasting themselves, and their scientific bias to me.
"Liesel," he'd say, "This Earth is the definition of a balancing act."
Then he'd proceed with the speech that I could recite like scripted lines from a play that would never be preformed. My father found his ambition in conspiracies, and the marijuana kept in a Mason jar beside his desk. He used to tell me, "Baby doll, you've never seen the world until you've seen it on mushrooms."
A natural remedy prescribed to himself by himself to make his imagination real again. Through vivid hallucinations he could describe like a treasured dream painted in colors that have yet to exist. Dreams were traded in favor of the hallucinations, the consequence of seeing what my father called, The Truth. That consequence was the main reason I had yet to chain smoke joints in the basement with my parents, I was too afraid of losing the seemingly last and only escape I had. That, and the fact that I was already walking a road of an incurable case of cystic acne. You'd think that once you'd hit the bottom why even try, I'd guess that it was because I had yet to hit bottom.