(no subject)
I was walking down Nine Mile a little bit ago after filling out some job applications when who should come running up to me but fucking Jimmy, my old dope runner. Still a fucking parasite junkie living off of other people. His current method of money making involves digging receipts out of the trash and then using them to pull the old Garden State grab something off the shelf and return it routine. He asked if I was still using and when I told him no his response was "bummer man, I've got three dimes of great shit in my pocket." Not what I fucking needed to hear. I chatted politely with him for a moment and then got the hell out of there.
There's a part of me that misses it. The runs down to Detroit, the excitement of it, the romance of the whole William Burroughs life. It's a lie though and looking at that pathetic, drugged out, forty-two year old homeless man reminded me of that. If I hadn't stopped, then, assuming I didn't kill myself, my fate would have been to become like him.
I'm glad it's over and I pray I never forget what could have been. I'm proud of my three months sobriety and I hope to build on it.
There's a part of me that misses it. The runs down to Detroit, the excitement of it, the romance of the whole William Burroughs life. It's a lie though and looking at that pathetic, drugged out, forty-two year old homeless man reminded me of that. If I hadn't stopped, then, assuming I didn't kill myself, my fate would have been to become like him.
I'm glad it's over and I pray I never forget what could have been. I'm proud of my three months sobriety and I hope to build on it.