Ryan Charles Griffin

The Young Ones Died From Fever Ryan Charles Griffin

The following story is composed of notes written on my phone while drunk, discovered while hung over. I kept waking up and finding these little snippets in my phone. At first, it was cool, but then it was as if they were trying to convince me of what I should feel. It was weird, they raised a very serious question. Did I have a reasonable grip on my own narrative? The notes made my thoughts feel like they were wearing a tinfoil hat and that felt like stranger danger. Was I right when I wrote them? In a way, they feel like someone stole my phone and told me their truth was mine, but any reasonable conclusion always ends with me being relatively responsible for my own actions. Anyhow, I present the notes to you unedited. Make your own judgment. But, for the sake of honesty, I should tell you that I deleted the originals during a tide of tantrums. Technically these are recreations, but I pinkie promise I gave my best effort to recall the dates, times, and content without resorting to any gas light bullshit. But then again, how would you know?