(no subject)
it is sixty days until my birthday.
another year gone by.
i will remember it now,
because its alot more depressing writing these entries on the day.
this time last year, i was in the crackhouse on lariviere st. in montreal.
the basement, still with mullen and chris and noodle.
living room mattress was my best friend besides the washroom.
even though mullen put on a really good front.
stayed there for the entirety of march too...
shooting dope and hooking for my next point
and my next
and next
next
brewing the occasional squeegee session.
overdosing once there
and silently watching the boys leave for the night
with all of my money and dope
secretly falling for every gay guy i met
pretending that i still loved dick
by april, i was still in the crackhouse.
new apartment though, yah, #6.
the boys left me alone with my pain and addictions.
they pretended to start off new without me.
faggots.
sarah squatted with me, and we shot alot of morphine.
those fucking capsules are the worst.
crushing them took forever sometimes.
she left, and i pretended not to notice our friendship deteriorating.
random junkies in my washroom and on the balcony
at all hours of the day and night.
i rescued Gussie from Sean the Crackhead
for twenty dollars
enough for a quarter.
i dont regret it.
id rather him than half a point of heroin anyday.
hard to believe sometimes, i know.
in may, i moved out of the crackhouse.
to metro jarry, where i was overwhelmed by immigrant culture.
catcalled by random niggers who would try to sell me for pot.
POT. yeah, really.
i got a job for a bit.
it was amazing.
as amazing as anything could be with a rigg stuck so deep in my arm
that i couldn't feel anymore.
i would buy groceries and watch them rot in the fridge.
i would smoke a lot and i promised no junking in my house.
until the third night.
fucking inevitable.
again, random squatters and junkies at every hour.
never sleeping, never eating, barely alive
i pushed on,
ripping off anyone that i considered a sucker.
getting ripped off by anyone who considered me one.
there were many,
for that's what i am.
in may, i found God with Mullen by my side.
we fought with every sense of the word.
in the end, i lost the battle.
my sweet seductress heroin,
she won, yet again, quite triumphantly.
june passed.
i lost Mullen for good, and i knew it.
chris had won his imaginary battle.
i was alone again.
july passed.
i was quickly perishing.
i knew it.
i felt it.
august came and i didn't get my welfare cheque.
my things got packed up and hauled to newmarket.
i stayed in montreal for another month
being the maggot to society that i am.
turning tricks and shooting dope.
my life, turned sour on purpose.
i did my last proposed hit of smack,
got on the road,
and made it to newmarket.
i was dopesick and depressed.
i would have rather died than gone thru the sickness
the aches and pains
the sweats
the muscle spasms
the puking and incontinence.
one more hit.
one more hit.
one more hit.
after a week, i was better
depressed, lonely, and alive
but better.
i got a job at winners, woo hoo.
i went two months clean, with the exceptions of random free uppers.
i had court november eleventh.
my mum came to montreal with me,
thinking she could pretect me from the big, bad werld.
but, i really just needed protection from myself.
only two points of PCP and a point of heroin
and i was found clinically dead at 7am.
the morning of my court. that was the kicker.
i spent two hours in St Luc's
i leff my mum in the hotel and went to find heroin.
how fucking unimaginable... that i wasted that WHOLE fucking point.
i spent the next four days higher than ever before.
i think i left viger park only a couple times.
leaning on dan for emotional and physical support.
returned to newmarket
to winners
to life
my -real- life.
yeah, right.
i got a place in the patch, basement apartment.
getting ripped on the rent, but its cheap for here.
minoux moved in too, along with Gussie.
partied a bit, met some new people
got drunk a lot, but no smack.
no drugs at all, actually.
til january 20th that just passed.
another court date in montreal.
again, mum came along. only for the court day.
it was thrown out, thankfully.
i stayed for another week.
i squatted with dan for a night in the oogle house.
he proposed and i laughed in his face.
bitch.
i squatted with Ralf and Jeff for the remainder of the week.
no hooking, but made a lot of cash and shot a lot of dope.
overdosed again, but it was okay.
im still alive.
now im back here again, in newmarket.
werking still, at winners.
clean of dope again for two weeks.
not enough cash for groceries.
for booze.
for my cats.
or for me.
the distance between the limosine and the gutter is a short one.
another year gone by.
i will remember it now,
because its alot more depressing writing these entries on the day.
this time last year, i was in the crackhouse on lariviere st. in montreal.
the basement, still with mullen and chris and noodle.
living room mattress was my best friend besides the washroom.
even though mullen put on a really good front.
stayed there for the entirety of march too...
shooting dope and hooking for my next point
and my next
and next
next
brewing the occasional squeegee session.
overdosing once there
and silently watching the boys leave for the night
with all of my money and dope
secretly falling for every gay guy i met
pretending that i still loved dick
by april, i was still in the crackhouse.
new apartment though, yah, #6.
the boys left me alone with my pain and addictions.
they pretended to start off new without me.
faggots.
sarah squatted with me, and we shot alot of morphine.
those fucking capsules are the worst.
crushing them took forever sometimes.
she left, and i pretended not to notice our friendship deteriorating.
random junkies in my washroom and on the balcony
at all hours of the day and night.
i rescued Gussie from Sean the Crackhead
for twenty dollars
enough for a quarter.
i dont regret it.
id rather him than half a point of heroin anyday.
hard to believe sometimes, i know.
in may, i moved out of the crackhouse.
to metro jarry, where i was overwhelmed by immigrant culture.
catcalled by random niggers who would try to sell me for pot.
POT. yeah, really.
i got a job for a bit.
it was amazing.
as amazing as anything could be with a rigg stuck so deep in my arm
that i couldn't feel anymore.
i would buy groceries and watch them rot in the fridge.
i would smoke a lot and i promised no junking in my house.
until the third night.
fucking inevitable.
again, random squatters and junkies at every hour.
never sleeping, never eating, barely alive
i pushed on,
ripping off anyone that i considered a sucker.
getting ripped off by anyone who considered me one.
there were many,
for that's what i am.
in may, i found God with Mullen by my side.
we fought with every sense of the word.
in the end, i lost the battle.
my sweet seductress heroin,
she won, yet again, quite triumphantly.
june passed.
i lost Mullen for good, and i knew it.
chris had won his imaginary battle.
i was alone again.
july passed.
i was quickly perishing.
i knew it.
i felt it.
august came and i didn't get my welfare cheque.
my things got packed up and hauled to newmarket.
i stayed in montreal for another month
being the maggot to society that i am.
turning tricks and shooting dope.
my life, turned sour on purpose.
i did my last proposed hit of smack,
got on the road,
and made it to newmarket.
i was dopesick and depressed.
i would have rather died than gone thru the sickness
the aches and pains
the sweats
the muscle spasms
the puking and incontinence.
one more hit.
one more hit.
one more hit.
after a week, i was better
depressed, lonely, and alive
but better.
i got a job at winners, woo hoo.
i went two months clean, with the exceptions of random free uppers.
i had court november eleventh.
my mum came to montreal with me,
thinking she could pretect me from the big, bad werld.
but, i really just needed protection from myself.
only two points of PCP and a point of heroin
and i was found clinically dead at 7am.
the morning of my court. that was the kicker.
i spent two hours in St Luc's
i leff my mum in the hotel and went to find heroin.
how fucking unimaginable... that i wasted that WHOLE fucking point.
i spent the next four days higher than ever before.
i think i left viger park only a couple times.
leaning on dan for emotional and physical support.
returned to newmarket
to winners
to life
my -real- life.
yeah, right.
i got a place in the patch, basement apartment.
getting ripped on the rent, but its cheap for here.
minoux moved in too, along with Gussie.
partied a bit, met some new people
got drunk a lot, but no smack.
no drugs at all, actually.
til january 20th that just passed.
another court date in montreal.
again, mum came along. only for the court day.
it was thrown out, thankfully.
i stayed for another week.
i squatted with dan for a night in the oogle house.
he proposed and i laughed in his face.
bitch.
i squatted with Ralf and Jeff for the remainder of the week.
no hooking, but made a lot of cash and shot a lot of dope.
overdosed again, but it was okay.
im still alive.
now im back here again, in newmarket.
werking still, at winners.
clean of dope again for two weeks.
not enough cash for groceries.
for booze.
for my cats.
or for me.
the distance between the limosine and the gutter is a short one.