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[indent][indent]It doesn’t take long for Ziggy to zone out, never does. He’s sat cross-legged on a ratty, old couch the color of mustard, bobbing his head to the pounding bassline of whatever they were listening to at the moment. A tray of pot brownies is balanced precariously on his lap, Ziggy’s heartfelt contribution to his floor’s very own dorm party. Now, they weren’t the [i]best[/i] brownies in the world, maybe not even in the top fifty-percent of brownies. He’s sure that Martha Stewart would have a lot to say about the charred crust and gooey center, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, and his friends from high school never complained about them.

He wonders what they’re up to now. Last he heard, Keller Goldstein was off in Nebraska studying [i]corn[/i], of all things.

Ziggy supposes he’s not much better off. Going to college in [i]Alaska[/i]? Who even did that? Truth be told, he hadn’t planned on college at all. After graduating from high school, he wanted to move to Hollywood and learn from the greats — Spielberg, Scorsese, Coppola, the whole shebang. His mother used to tell him that there was no better teacher than life itself, but the look on her face when he told her his plans was a different story. Life experience is great and all, but you know what they say about giving it that old, college try! She was so earnest about it that Ziggy could hardly bear to say no, and so… [i]he didn’t[/i]. With his middling SAT score, Upper Lake was one of the only places that would take him, and he figured the isolation might spark some new ideas; cabin fever was a hell of a drug, after all. Just look at what it did to Jack Torrance.

…Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best example, but Hollywood would still be there when he graduated. No harm in getting a degree under his belt while he was at it, right?

Setting the baking tray down on top of an already-empty pizza box, Ziggy climbs to his feet in preparation for a good stretch. Much of his day was spent slaving away over a hot oven — well, he’d actually had a nice nap while the brownies were baking, but no one needed to know that, and he did still have to whisk the everloving shit out of a massive pot of brownie mix which took some [i]serious[/i] upper body strength. Of course, he also brought with him a 12-pack of Budweiser for good measure. You couldn’t go wrong with beer.

Cracking open a bottle for himself, he glugs down a fizzy mouthful while scoping out the people in attendance. There were a few familiar faces, some more so than others, though he doesn’t approach anyone just yet, instead shoving one half of a brownie straight into his mouth. Almost immediately, the overpowering funk of weed assaults his taste buds, and he has to wash it down with another swig of beer after only chewing twice.

Ugh, he should’ve just stuck to his usual stuff. That’ll teach him to buy weed from a guy named [i]Shaggy[/i].[/indent][/indent]
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