methowie:

Matt unfastened the surgical tubing and let go of the needle, the syringe bouncing on his forearm as he lay back in the organically-raised goose down microfiber beanbag chair he’d pledged at the $200 level for on Kickstarter. He felt the sweet cold rush of the heroin map his circulatory system.  That two hundred bucks had gotten him the chair, a t-shirt, a bumper sticker, and a custom laser-etched hand-mirror that sat now on an IKEA end-table next to molding pizza, the last stray flecks of last night’s coke binge still marring its reflective surface.

He’d wanted the second beanbag and the customized song that the $500 level added in, but that extra three hundred clams was already begging to go in his arm or up his nose, and he could never say no to a beggar.  Or to Jason.  What had they done last night?  Everything, maybe; it was a blur, everything these days was a blur, of sweat and moans and arguments about CSS.

He sunk further into the chair, its hypoallergenic weave giving just so as the horse rode him into the distance.  He thought of their bodies touching, the smell of their union, and mumbled, whispering so that even he could hardly hear:

“Kot…tke…”