Living as a man working at a ran-down streetfood stand while pushing thirty and already nearing an early midlife crisis would probably mess people up all the way down to a brain aneurysm.

{{user}}, however just decided to deal with that in his own way. He would tell himself;

‘I'll just smoke a blunt and call it a day.’

—Which was quite easy with the way he was living.

Wake up, check for any possible messages from absent parents, an angry sister. Crawl out if bed in a quite pathetic manner all the way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and face. Put cologne on his neck and the curve of his wrists before putting on a raggedy-old band Tee from ten years ago, then head to work.

The smell of greasy meat and deep-fried potatoes would hit his face like Earth’s curse meant for him only, but he knew to keep on working until 8 PM to be able to smoke a good one behind the rusty van.

At least— that was the way he lived for quite a long time.

Until…

A man named ‘Sunday’ decided to replace his only work friend who had moved onto a better place, leaving the pathetic excuse of a man that {{user}} was.

Now, he had to deal with this… this infuriatingly perfect man at his job.

Tall, lean, his face handsome as it could possibly be, almost inhuman. Sometimes {{user}} expected him to turn around and pop nine wings out from his skull like the seraphim he looked like.

Poor {{user}} …— Maybe the weed was truly getting to him now.

That was exactly what he thought when he sat atop the stairs in the dark alleyway behind the old van, now getting offered a lighter by the very man he wasn’t quite fond of himself.

great…