Jelly burst out from between the crust of two slices of smashed together wheat bread, oozing into the crevices of the ziplock bag which fortunately contained the sticky grape mess from from seeping into the confines of my backpack. It seemed the sandwich had slipped between my camera case and tripod, the weight of the former mashed my lunch into a tortilla thin peanut butter and jelly quesadilla. In search of better spirits I decided to head up to the roof in hopes of complimenting a disappointingly flat lunch with a mediocre view overlooking a rag weed tick invested field brushing up against the perimeter of a blown out decades abandoned laboratory building.

As I sat with my feet dangling from the edge of the tar and gravel roof I motioned to grab for my iPhone buried deep within my front pocked to capture a picture of the mundane scene to instantly upload and share with all my even more boring Internet friends in hopes of accumulating a few likes to raise my lack-of-lunch spirit. Upon penetrating just the tip of my finger into the opening of my baggy pocket, somehow a glob of jelly which managed to remain hidden between the crotch of my middle and pointer finger became dislodged and smeared across my naked phone's screen leaving behind a difficult to buff yet fragrant high fructose skid stain. "Son of a bitch" I murmured to myself, hampered by a sigh of disappointment. But with a glob of spit conjured up from the deepest depths of my throat then filtered between the gap within my front teeth, I was able to polish my phone's screen back to touchable recognition.

Initially distracted by all this commotion I soon realized I had placed my unprotected Mexican PB&J sandwich on an eroded cement ledge full of tiny pebbles and dust particulates. My stomach growled for food so I knew I needed to take a chance bite, a bite which instantly crunched between my molars as I swallowed the first and last gulp of my meal. In a fit of hunger induced rage I chucked the remainder of the sandwich off the roof and into the field below, in hopes that perhaps at the very least some ants could enjoy it or a dumb worm could make home in it. But during the sandwich's thirty foot downward free fall toward Earth, the flaccid pebble infused flattened bread managed to wrap around a bare twig protruding from a stupid sapling tree; a flimsy tree, no more than 6 feet tall, rigid as a boiled noodle. And so there it dangled, a squashed sandwich within a tree, slowly dripping grape jelly droplets like a melting candy icicle, what a sight for a sore sandwich.

Fortunately in such a dire time of hunger I recalled I had stowed an emergency survival Cosmic Brownie within the dark recesses of my backpack months ago, existing to quench starvation for just such an occasion. I had to dig through pockets and pouches I never knew existed within my pack, but between lead paint chips and white powder of questionable chemistry, I managed to find the deformed chocolate morsel, still topped with colorful chocolate sprinkles that time and gravity had now driven deep within the brownie batter, forming strange cosmic craters. This created a rather stomach unsettling illusion making the brownie out to look like a rubbery slice of skin originating from some 90 year old's flappy neck rolls. But I had to make the best of it or die hungry. Hurriedly I peeled off the thin cellophane wrapper so frail from age and neglect it disintegrated into thin grease covered strips. I had no better choice but to continue painstakingly unwrapping and carefully consuming my sticker thin Little Debbie dinner with the enthusiasm of a scratch-off lottery ticket loser; still addicted enough to keep going even though I knew I had picked a failure.

Yet through all this, I still sat with my feet dangling off the roof ledge bored as ever but slightly less hungry, now just pondering if I should even bother breaking out my camera. The sun would soon set thus I had no real desire to photograph the ruinous dump I sat upon, yet I needed to do something to occupy my mind for the time being. With nothing left to smash nor any half used spray paint cans left behind by stupid urbex kids to be found, I just sat there, staring out into the overgrown field wondering how simple it must be to live life out as a rag weed; you just grow and grow and grow, until one day some spinning metal blades chop you in half or a herbivore grinds you up between their teeth and excretes you into milk duds.

I watched the sun begin to sink into the horizon, glazing the empty fields ahead a golden brown hue, like my brownie should have been. I could just leave I realized, I had nothing better to do nor anywhere to go, but it is so much more simpler just to sit with an empty wandering mind. But then there was movement! As if the boredom gods recognized my cry for entertainment through a lack of expressed stimuli, I seemed to have been cleansed of my boredom sins, for the weeds in the distance began to part. I rubbed my eyes, clearly this was no job of the wind, as the air was dead still, yet no distinguishable source could be spotted to explain such a phenomenon. Soon voices filled the air, the sound bleeding out in all directions from between the dense weed penitentiary which obscured the approaching motion within. It became clear that the voices where of multiple sources and they echoed relatively low with an occasional high pitched crack, however the overall tone seemed to exert a sense of stupidity.

The voices moved closer and a language was soon discernible. This was no doubt an English speaking presence approaching, with a very vulgar bias. "Where the fuck are we man" a male sounding voice repeated, followed by a second demeaning voice blasting "shut the hell up Fred, you lard ass, we're almost here!". And with no further conversation, a silent two minuets passed, the calm before a wild duo of dopey teenagers burst out from the weeds, wielding backpacks and sporting sinister all-black clothing. The gang dressed alike; sporting baggy ankle hanging shorts held up by a video game gut and Obey hoodies loose enough to snugly fit a rhino all topped off with a claw machine won, faux wallet chain. The posse two deep quickly approached the laboratory slumping through the rag weeds directly toward my rooftop perch. They held their heads held low, presumably looking for an easy ground level entrance, both unbeknownst to my feet dangling just above their brainless skulls.

Finally some entertainment, I chatted to my brain. I remained quiet, waiting out the perfect chance to scare Fred's lard ass straight back to his Xbox at home. Well I assumed it was Fred I'd be scaring, he was the rounder of the two. Regardless, the set up was perfect, they both stood dumbfounded directly beneath my shoes. And so slowly I filled my lungs to capacity with a massive gasp of air, which I held back, just waiting for the perfect second to let loose a menacing demonic scream of terror and then watch as these two goons gun it straight back through the thorns and tall weeds with the urgency of a fire lit under their ass.

But in unfathomable unison just as I let loose my barbaric scream, it was overcome and muted by an ear piercing, dog discernible, glass shattering shriek of terror released from from the apparent inner tween female within Fred. I looked down in confusion only to see him feverishly swatting at his face. "What the fuck, what the fuck is it, get it off man", he yelled repeatedly. And then I saw it, a purple smear across Fred's forehead and then another glazing his right eye closed like a severe case of pink-eye. It was then I noticed a now bare sapling branch bouncing like a loose spring and instantaneously I spurt out in laughter.

With my cover blown by uncontrollable hysteria, Fred looked up, his left eye bulged in hatred upon spotting me as he continued to wipe away his other jelly infused donut eye. "Brah, what the shit did you throw at me", he bellowed between voice cracks. "Nothing man, wrong place at that wrong time, it seriously wasn't me", I laughingly replied. "Bullshit man, I'm gonna beat the living shit out of you, you cunt", he exclaimed to me in a murderous tone garnished with a look of grape tainted horror. "Too late kid, I'm gonna die laughing before you even come close to figuring out how to get your lard ass up here", I yelled back, with a slight stutter as it then occurred to me that a 14 year old dweeb just called me a cunt. His friend didn't say a word but merely punched his shoulder in a sort of a bro jargon, indicating that the two better leave. As the gang tuned their backs, I spotted an ever so recognizable limp slice of wheat bread dangling from the rear of Fred's shoulder, slowly slithering down his bacon fat back leaving behind a gooey trail, like a candy snail, soon to be swallowed by his exposed ass-crack fissure. A fitting grave for a failed sandwich.