(no subject)
I'm watching my cat take a shit while listening a sad song. Lately I've felt like maybe being sober isn't for me. My days no longer seem like accomplishments and I take these days for granted, I guess. I have 663 days without alcohol or other drugs and lately I've been considering getting loaded.
I start work at 4am. Coming in at 4am is against the rules. I'm supposed to come in at 4:30am. I just don't want to be there past 1pm and I want to work an eight hour day. My area of stocking is in the cooler. I make sure the shelf looks good from the front before I go into the giant cooler. My forklift driver is a Filipino man named Joseph. Ironically, I go by the name Joseph at work too. He has a wife back in the Philippines and he video chats with her from his forklift, on his phone. I'm usually all alone for the first couple hours and today I thought back to when I lived in San Francisco.
I woke up in the paint storage room at The Maria Hotel and walked down Columbus Street to work. The streets are always empty at 3:30am. Last night Ronnie came into the paint storage room with a candle, a aluminum measuring spoon and a lighter. He showed me how to shoot dope all by myself. I had tried it before and failed. Ronnie knew exactly what he was doing and his hamburger arms didn't lie. After I loaded the rig and shot it into my arm, I knew I missed and there was a large bump in my arm. I couldn't tell if it had kicked in because I had been smoking it off foil prior to him coming in. We left the monthly rental hotel where I was free loading and walked around Chinatown because he needed fruit and chicken. I just remember following him around and talking about baseball. We talked about how much he liked the St. Louis Cardinals and hated The San Francisco Giants. He said that most of the Giants fans didn't know anything about baseball and I pretended that I knew about baseball while obsessively looking at my arm and wondering if I was going to die. We walked into one of the Chinese shops and the lady behind the counter had his order all wrapped up, special and ready to go. There was a giant fried pig hanging upside down next to ducks and chickens with the same fried bodies. I felt like I needed a drink and asked Ronnie if he thought I'd be alright with just a 24 ounce. He said. “Yeah, you'll be alright with a 24 but I wouldn't suggest it because you always drink more than a 24.” Ronnie was right and I knew it. I knew I'd drink more than a 24 but I just wanted him to say that it was okay because I needed someone to okay it for some reason. Ronnie and I went our separate ways because he was going back to his place to eat dinner, watch baseball and probably skin pop dope into his ass and I went to the packy and purchased two 40oz bottles of Miller High Life. The only place where I have seen 40oz of Miller High Life is in the Bay Area. I walked across the street, back to The Maria where I once had a room and cracked open the paint storage room where I now lived and began drinking one of the 40oz bottles to the tune of a slight stomach ache from the dope. I gazed out my window at the hookers, the door men and all the cock suckers on Broadway. I just sat there, chain smoking, drinking and thinking about a good time to take another shot on my own, with a lighter and not the candle he brought me. I'd get up, piss in a jar and pour it out on to the sidewalk three stories below. Nobody really seemed to notice the piss falling on them. Maybe it hit the building first, maybe it sprinkled out after the pour. I don't know. I ended up shooting into the right vein after vomiting up what I could of the High Life. I am a habitual drinker, a real alcoholic and I washed the puke down with more beer. The shot felt good and I was proud of myself for making the hit and working it right. I went to bed on cardboard slabs and two paint buckets and woke up to one of the cooks from the restaurant around the corner, trying to break in. He popped his head in the door. I figured he was either trying to see what he could take or drunkenly catching a blowjob from one of his cook friends. I told him: “Sal de aqui, estoy durmiendo!” and he shut the door. As I walked to work the next morning, I thought about where I was going to cook up a shot during my lunch break and came to the conclusion that the bathrooms at the grocery store across the way were sufficient.
I start work at 4am. Coming in at 4am is against the rules. I'm supposed to come in at 4:30am. I just don't want to be there past 1pm and I want to work an eight hour day. My area of stocking is in the cooler. I make sure the shelf looks good from the front before I go into the giant cooler. My forklift driver is a Filipino man named Joseph. Ironically, I go by the name Joseph at work too. He has a wife back in the Philippines and he video chats with her from his forklift, on his phone. I'm usually all alone for the first couple hours and today I thought back to when I lived in San Francisco.
I woke up in the paint storage room at The Maria Hotel and walked down Columbus Street to work. The streets are always empty at 3:30am. Last night Ronnie came into the paint storage room with a candle, a aluminum measuring spoon and a lighter. He showed me how to shoot dope all by myself. I had tried it before and failed. Ronnie knew exactly what he was doing and his hamburger arms didn't lie. After I loaded the rig and shot it into my arm, I knew I missed and there was a large bump in my arm. I couldn't tell if it had kicked in because I had been smoking it off foil prior to him coming in. We left the monthly rental hotel where I was free loading and walked around Chinatown because he needed fruit and chicken. I just remember following him around and talking about baseball. We talked about how much he liked the St. Louis Cardinals and hated The San Francisco Giants. He said that most of the Giants fans didn't know anything about baseball and I pretended that I knew about baseball while obsessively looking at my arm and wondering if I was going to die. We walked into one of the Chinese shops and the lady behind the counter had his order all wrapped up, special and ready to go. There was a giant fried pig hanging upside down next to ducks and chickens with the same fried bodies. I felt like I needed a drink and asked Ronnie if he thought I'd be alright with just a 24 ounce. He said. “Yeah, you'll be alright with a 24 but I wouldn't suggest it because you always drink more than a 24.” Ronnie was right and I knew it. I knew I'd drink more than a 24 but I just wanted him to say that it was okay because I needed someone to okay it for some reason. Ronnie and I went our separate ways because he was going back to his place to eat dinner, watch baseball and probably skin pop dope into his ass and I went to the packy and purchased two 40oz bottles of Miller High Life. The only place where I have seen 40oz of Miller High Life is in the Bay Area. I walked across the street, back to The Maria where I once had a room and cracked open the paint storage room where I now lived and began drinking one of the 40oz bottles to the tune of a slight stomach ache from the dope. I gazed out my window at the hookers, the door men and all the cock suckers on Broadway. I just sat there, chain smoking, drinking and thinking about a good time to take another shot on my own, with a lighter and not the candle he brought me. I'd get up, piss in a jar and pour it out on to the sidewalk three stories below. Nobody really seemed to notice the piss falling on them. Maybe it hit the building first, maybe it sprinkled out after the pour. I don't know. I ended up shooting into the right vein after vomiting up what I could of the High Life. I am a habitual drinker, a real alcoholic and I washed the puke down with more beer. The shot felt good and I was proud of myself for making the hit and working it right. I went to bed on cardboard slabs and two paint buckets and woke up to one of the cooks from the restaurant around the corner, trying to break in. He popped his head in the door. I figured he was either trying to see what he could take or drunkenly catching a blowjob from one of his cook friends. I told him: “Sal de aqui, estoy durmiendo!” and he shut the door. As I walked to work the next morning, I thought about where I was going to cook up a shot during my lunch break and came to the conclusion that the bathrooms at the grocery store across the way were sufficient.