He was right about one thing. Being a junkie is a ton of fucking work. I was thankful for an opportunity to rest.





Thinking of my friend who died last year.













"Being a junkie is bad", he tells me "I don't mean "bad" as in a value judgement sort of bad like hey dude, you are fucked up because you are a junkie kind of bad. Being a junkie is a ton of fucking work."I can see the lighter hit the target without seeing his face on geeze. People smoking meth look highly unattractive. It smells like nail polish remover crossed with butane and death. I am surprised the smell of that stuff doesn't kill every roach for two miles. I hate hanging out with tweakers. I mean I am a tweaker, sort of. I like to use meth but I cannot imagine using it day after day after day, year after year. I am not the kind of person to take a part a computer and try to rebuild it. I don't go headfirst into a dumpster then come to a day later. I don't whack off until my snatch is scabby. I just like to be up then come down. I am an equal opportunity user.This guy invited himself over for my birthday. He said he would give me a hit for free. I made it clear from the second it suggested it there would be no "tweaking and freaking" up in my room. I have lost the count how many times men have offered to give me drugs then EXPECTED me to have sex with them the second they pulled the needle out of their arm. In fact, I have even paid for drugs and had the same thing happen. Gross. I use meth to get my dope tolerance down. I am not interested in anything else. I hate dealing with these assholes. My neighbor was so mad I wouldn't have sex with him, he removed the plates from where you plug in appliances on his side of the wall then started chipping away at mine so he could get a peek at me. This is the same freak who has the ENTIRE wall facing min covered in a porn collage. They are all pictures he has cut from the back of magazines. The little ones for 1-800 ads that are an inch tall pasted together to cover the entire surface. From what I understand, he takes a hit of speed and gets lost jacking off while moving his eyes along the wall. He is a special kind of weirdo."Why do you do that shit Tony?" I ask "Aren't you wasting it?" I never have quite understood how a person switched from the needle back to smoking or snorting drugs. It seems like such a waste to me.He shows me his neck "Because T. I got a needle broken off in there."He goes on to explain he has no veins left in his body except his femoral and his arm pit which he saves for "special occasions". He has to pay a phlebotomist to come in and fix him up. She works at a nursing home during the day and sells the medical supplies she steals from there to dealers.I can't say I don't understand that. I am currently digging in the heel of my foot. I have been up so long everything is shiny and hazy at the same time."Why do you do THAT shit?' he asks me, pointing to my heroin. "being a junkie is fucking stupid. Spending all your life asleep, sick, or scamming for money." He continues as he flips through a magazine. "Think of all the money you waste. I can do one bag, maybe two, and be set for at least a day."There it is there- that superiority complex. You use a drug every day, have no veins, but I am the one who is fucked up. I shake my head. The fucking nerve of him. I turn back to finish what I started. Bam. I stick my leg over my head to let the burn travel down my leg. What is going to happen now, I wonder to myself. Will I die? Will I feel good? I only have a few seconds before the feeling washes over me. Then- not much of anything. .2 tenths doesn't do much of anything anymore. Just makes life bearable.I look over to Tony. I guess I had been missing something while I was digging for a vein. He is looking at a magazine, true enough, but not the kind with articles. I glance over to see a man with his fist up another dude's ass. Um what? He is calmly browsing gay porn as if it was the New York Times. I wonder if his girlfriend knows. I guess it is none of my business."Can I use your bathroom?" he asks me.Sure, I think. Just don't be in there all night or get any of my shampoo bottles stuck up your ass. Different strokes, I suppose. When he finally gives me my bag of speed, I trade it for heroin. I never got him to come out of the bathroom. he just pushed it from under the door. I have no idea what went on in there but he came out the next day shaved from head to toe with a face full of scabs from picking imaginary pimples. I was still grateful for the birthday present. There is no better feeling than knowing I am going to bed with something for the morning.