We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The chocolate glaze barely makes it to the sponge cake, most of the nut garnished icing ending up on the tips of my fingers. I am sure, Jake won't be as cranky about blowing candles over a year old, straight out of Betty Crocker's cardboard box, half baked, half winged cocoa cake. I mean, what's better than a factory assembled chocolaty treat to represent how shitty adulthood really is. Especially, when you are out of your teens and forcibly pushed in the rat marathon— lets be honest, a race has got to stop somewhere— going on and on since decades. We at Arlington, anyway believe that the corporate world is awaiting our arrival with soaring arms. On that capitalistic note, happy twentieth, Jake!
While we are going to celebrate his birthday in all righteousness, he is particularly insistent on doing a little something at the recreation centre. I almost backed out of filling up on a plate of bite sized coleslaw sandwiches and those wholesale transparent packets of salted– nay, grossly salted fried chips. Back when I was a child, I was of the belief that salt was extracted from those low priced treats. But he wore me down with his pleads and that damned puppy dog, specs covered face of his— which I still regret ever looking at, for the record. The good kind of regret though. The one where you know you are screwed, but also how you would pick that any day over risking a B&E under an unadvised dose of ecstasy.
Scraping a final layer of leftover chocolate over the cake, I let it settle in the refrigerator until it is time to take it to the hub of joy. I bet those guys have begun to appreciate the humour beneath my usually sardonic tongue. After all, they are the only ones left to practice it on— my regular targets now out of my reach for good. I admit there was a time, I couldn't think of going by two days without dunking my weed based cookies in mugs full of liquor, and one of the members of the gang being there to cheer along and partake in my crazy business. I remember how Emma and I almost burned my house down while playing catch with that rusty lighter of hers, and on a vodka soaked carpet at that. Kylie was supposed to come as well, but she was busy hunting for a booty call at the beach on the outskirts. From what I heard later that morning, some stuff went down and, apparently, cuffs were involved.
Lucky for us, the PD hasn't been able to prove our involvement in the suspicious circumstances under which she was murdered, and it looks like they are trying to file it alongside the rest of their cold cases. Kylie's parents are the ones keeping the department's foot down, still attempting to get a fresh lead on the otherwise open and shut case. I understand how they can't let go of the hunt for the perpetrator, but it's only to our benefit if he stays put with the ball laying around in his court. I can't speak for the rest, but I am not ready to scram for anymore clues about mysterious initials, unprompted fires, or well written suicide notes. I would rather go through my mail instead.
I brought it in while I stepped out to water my marijuana growing pots, and couldn't help the amusement as I saw the neatly wrapped package. There were days when I couldn't walk straight to the mailbox without running into the door head first— believe me, that wasn't always the case— and here I am today, opening a package that I didn't order off 'DrugsRUs.' I can vouch for the closure of that website, but can't really speak about their possible amalgamation with 'FarmToDoor.' How else am I supposed to explain all this hay addressed to my name, and what looks like an invite to a New Year's Eve get together at a ranch.
