Semi-Daily Scribbles

Meg's favorite ashtray walked off with the lighter she stole from Vince. She figured it was punishment for picking back up a few bad habits. Meg needed nicotine stat and rummaged through her purse for matches. Out of the recent supply run, the Marlboro Reds were the least toxic item in the house. Meg procured certain curatives from lighterless Vince intended to lift the fog that had settled on her brain. Meg moved through her days as if wrapped in cotton batting. She couldn't breathe. Her eyesight was cloudy, hearing fuzzy, and her limbs were weighted down and itchy. And she was always hot and sweaty. Meg couldn't remember if the symptoms came on before or after the girls were taken away. It didn't really matter as her match search came up empty. Other than a cigarette, all Meg wanted was to retrace her steps and find where she'd misplaced her life.