I Can’t Be Trusted

I stole the rest of the pot and smoked it, right out from under my Max's nose. I took it out of his draw, by his bed. He always says he is hiding it and either I am smarter than the average thief or good hiding places are hard to find, as I always find it. I smoked the lot, didn't share any of it.

He didn't say anything, too busy trying to be healthy, I guess. Or, he just didn't notice, which I find hard to believe. I would have noticed if it was mine. I don't know, I don't really care.

I can't be trusted, I told you that.

I just go into his room, and start looking. It is never hard to find, I always find it. I sometimes wonder if he'd installed a camera, it wouldn't be hard to do. And wonder if he'll spring the photographic evidence on me, you know, out of the blue. But, he hasn't, I guess, obviously.

I tell myself, I am not going to do it again, but then I am back in there going through his draws. Again.

I can’t be trusted.

And I’m his friend.