Musings

ugly.txt 2-17-17

I pulled my clothes over my pathetic limp body.

"What ever queer. Get out of my fucking room."

"Can I get your number?"

"You can get fucking lost dude."

Before I even pulled my shirt on all the way, I was in the hall of this very bitter shoulda-coulda-woulda-been partner for the night's apartment building.

"Not my first fall off the bull," I lit a cigarette I stole from her nightstand, "But if I don't fucking blow my head off," looooonnngggg drag. Exhale. "This won't be my last rodeo."

I climb into the driver seat of my van/house. The engine barely cranks.

Drag. Exhale.

I go to the nearest place with a big ass parking lot, which ends up being a Walmart.

My routine of, park, get out, get in the back is so deeply riveted into my muscle memory that I start before I even pull the key from the ignition.

In the back I have my few prescious wordly posessions; a mattress, a vinyl player and a spoon and syringe.

I check my stash box even though I know that when I look inside it'll be empty and I'll light another cigarette-this time my own-and hope I get buzzed enough to sleep.

That never happens.

I put a Miles Davis record on. The music itself has become boring after hearing it over a million times. But the vinyl pop reminds me of the only home I've had in the past years.

A fucking needle.

I finish the cigarette and prepare to lay in the dark until the sun motivates me with it's "maybe you were gonna sleep later, but now you'll never know" rays of quote on quote "energy".

Think to myself, maybe today's the day. I'll finally have my big break and meet someone to give a fuck about me enough to put up with my shit.

But it never is.

I can't even get a suitable bedmate 9/10 times because I can only get hard when I shoot up. But that presents another problem, I don't want to fuck when I shoot up. And no one wants to be around, much less fuck, anyone whos shooting up.

Hunger burns inside me.

A famine of two things, but only one thing the average person needs to make it through a day. The other one is just my shit habit eating my mind and bidy. Whatever is left from the malnutrition.

I boldly decide to dumpster dive at a local deli in the broad daylight. It pays off and I make off like a theif with a whole loaf of stale bread and some buckets, that judging from the smell housed pickles recently.

I devour the bread and reflect on life before.

I had a girl. The best fucking girl ever I'm convinced.

She loved me to death. So much that she couldn't bear to see me using.

"I don't wanna see you hooked on some scary shit," don't worry I would shallowly reassure. But was it really shallow? Does anyone really expect to get hooked? On anything?

I was hooked on her. I still am.

That's the hardest withdrawal anyone can face.

I see her in crowds, then I see myself in a mirror.

Un-fucking-worthy.

That's how I felt before I was a fucking junkie.

Now it's intensified by a fucking number too big to even comprehend much less type or tell even.

So much general inadequacy in myself. It's a terrible feeling. To feel so unfit for anything.

Even in just being I felt unworthy to breathe or anything.

But humanity is selfishness.

And I just want a fucking fix.

Of anything.

I plan my overdose everytime I shoot now. But that's so few and far between anymore that I always hold off a little so I can have some shit to shoot in the morning in case I live.

Which is always the case.

I wished I would just get high enough to slip into the very fabric of reality. Metaphorically that is the high itself. But I wanted literally to simply cease existing.