Sorry That You're Dead

That Girl We Like

Ruthie

Yeah, I was feeling highly depressed, but had it not been for that joint, I would have been in the biggest fuck-all funk to ever overcome my conflicted soul. To say that this day had gotten off on the wrong foot would be an understatement. But it wasn’t just today. Life in general sucked donkey balls with a healthy helping of horse of poo on the side.

What was so fucked up in my life? Well, aside from the fact that my name’s Ruth — by God I hope I’m the last. No one should be subject to such torture — my homelife was wrecked beyond repair. Mom was a perennial crackhead. No. I take that back. She gladly gets a fix from crack cocaine, heroin, crank, alcohol — whatever she can get her grimy little paws on. Dad wasn’t necessarily gone, but he didn’t come around much. Can’t say I blamed him. Only wished he’d come save me from time to time.

I could truly say that I only had two people I could lean on in this crazy world. And they happened to be brothers, which sometimes made things complicated, but we dealt with it. Right about now, I could use them to at least try to lift my spirits with the unadulterated stupidity they were known for. Didn’t matter which one, either. I needed my boys.

Shane

Just being outside was like sitting under a cloud of depression. Underneath the dim, charcoal colored sky. On this raggedly ass porch, caving in spots due to termite infestation and neglect. The inside wasn’t much better, but at least I could raid mom’s valium stash, sedate myself, and fall into a deep sleep to momentarily escape this persistent hell on earth. Just when I got ready to lift myself from the rusty rocking chair, I saw a most pleasant surprise coming my way.

The first thing I noticed about Ruthie was her detached mood. She walked with her head hung, covered by the hood of a hooded sweat shirt that allowed the frizzled strands of her curly hair to peek out. But other than that, she looked as she always did — gorgeous. Ruthie could come out of the house with her hair all over her head, no makeup, and a busted lip and she’d still be a breathtaking goddess in my mind.

“What you doin’ over this way,” I asked, trying to contain my excitement over her mere presence.

“I just had to get out of the house. Mom Milwaukee Bested herself into a coma earlier than usual, so I figured I’d slide out before she wakes up stammering and stuttering all over the place.”

I cared about Ruthie’s personal afflictions. I really did. But she was looking especially stunning on this day. Plus I was gone on the Northern Lights, and when I’m high, I often dedicate super focus to whatever’s in front of me. At the time it was Ruthie’s smooth, angelic face and succulent lips.

“Smart move. Now you’re just in time to catch my mom’s daily bitchfest.”

My comment drew a smile, which made her appear even more beautiful than she looked when sporting her trademark sad or angry expressions. So to take my mind off of that, I shifted my thoughts to her attire — bad move. She had on those famous gray sweat pants — the ones that hugged her booty so snug, they kept creeping between her perfectly sculpted cheeks no matter how many times she de-wedged.