Falling Six Feet Down

Like so many other stories this one starts out with me getting high with my friends. It was a cool fall night in the midwest, the kind that makes an atheist almost believe in god. The way the stars blanket the sky is truly amazing. I used to live in the country where on certain nights it was so beautiful that it could certainly rival even the greatest man made painting or sculpture.
Anyway it was one of those nights and we were in a graveyard getting stoned. This is before I got my own place and had the comfort and freedom of being able to get stoned in my own apartment. It may have been pain in the ass to risk being out in the open getting stoned where any cop or "good samaritan" could find us, but looking back on it now I wouldn't trade those youthful, brilliant nights for anything.
So I had a quarter ounce of weed and I was getting high with some of my old friends. I always seemed to be the one who had the weed in my group, not because I was cool or anything, but because back then I was the only one with a job in my clique. To be honest I hung out with some pretty sketchy people in my youth, but this is before I turned 18 and went to college and discovered that most people's eyes truly open when they reach adulthood. Its always much easier to party when you're an adult.
In fact when you're an adult it is the ability to control your partying that is more necessary.
I lived in a small town all my life, and as anyone who has lived similairly will attest it is almost impossible not to know everybody else's business in that town. Not too long before that night a girl had died that I had known. We'd gone to school together since kindergarten and she had died in a car wreck. We all knew her in some way or another but I had known her the best.
So as we sat in my car getting stoned off of my bud, I looked at each of my friends. There were three of us there Matt,
Stephen and me. Matt was a hillbilly in the first degree. He liked loud country music, drinking, and idiocy in all its forms. He proclaimed to love fighting, but I only saw him fight once before, and it was more like he was picking on the poor kid. I hated Matt, and he disliked me but he was my weed connection.
Stephen was the polar opposite of Matt. Steve hailed from california, liked rap music, and was a friend to most everybody.
Then there was me. Somewhere in the middle, born in the midwest, but with a intense love of rock and roll, kind to most people, and the one with the cash for the bud.
As the joints burned away, and we slowly got to the point of no return, I came up with an idea.
"We should go look at Cindy's grave" I said wistfully.
"Yeah," said Matt.
"You guys go ahead, I'm drunk," Said steve.
"All right."
So there we went, embarking on a dark journey to the grave of our mutual friend. We were stoned, drunk, and couldn't have found our own asses in the black night, but armed with one bic lighter and one zippo lighter we forged ahead.
We maneuvered through the cemetary clumsily, laughing and joking at one another in a weak attempt to stave off the fear, and darkness of the night.
We stumbled around for about ten minutes before I said, " I don't think we're gonna find her-whooooaaaahhhoaaaaa."
The ground seemed to give away before me and I was engulfed in blackness. A deep horrid feeling came over me as I realized that I had falled in Cindy's grave. I stayed there for a grand total of half a second before I jumped out of my skin and onto firm ground again.
Matt was running toward the car, but I clearly recall beating him to it.

Thats what you get for fucking about in grave yards!!! :p
lol, at least you weren't having sex there, which seems to be all the rage over here for some youths!

LOL, cool story. Well told.

thanx buddy, that's what one year of college majoring in drugs will get you- good writing skills