(no subject)
dear mr apathy,
i present to y'all a work of pure fiction semiautobiography. the characters are not based on any one person that i know, and none of these events actually ever happened. but i will narrate, and give y'all the oppurtunity to pick up narrating with me trough comments. only rule is "don't care, be creative".
Chapter None
So, I decided to leave that bathroom...
It's 2:22 a.m., or at least I hope it is. I just stole this watch, and it'd suck if it had already died. I rise in robotic agony to my feet and check my body for further injuries. It's become a nightly ritual: get fucked up, crawl to the toilet; bleed, vomit, pass-out, etc. The blood's dried under my nose, so I'll take this time to tell you how I have ended up in the toilet of some filthy room, on the 8th floor of the Old Central Side Hotel.
Last Sunday. The end of summer for most; yet for me, it's been summer for 5 years. The usual nocturnal mob - that is, Grace, a pretty number, not too bright, a real follower; Evan, trickster; Raphael, inexplicably known as Rap; Trick, slut; Mario, typical bull-headed type; and Yours Truly and his ego (and a damned fine one at that) - was gathered at some shit-hole diner for coffee. We're not from the city, so finding pleasant food and "lodging" is a real hunt, especially with these Cro-Magnon trailing me. Don't get me wrong, I love them like family; but since we all left our respective homes in the suburbs, and started living as gypsy drug fiends in the city; life's been hell. I could ramble on about it, but I'll spare you the whining. So, we were there in some random diner, thinking about trying to score again, but having only $20 to our collective name. That's when it was suggested: The Big One. Wait… maybe that isn't far back enough…
May, 1999. I had just graduated from high school, and what did it get me? Nothing! No hope, no dreams, no future. That's when I stopped living with my folks, and started wandering. I would spend nights, then days and nights, then weeks or months out of my parent's house. They never noticed; they were much too engrossed in yuppie jobs, and morning papers to noticed their son's constant absenteeism. So, I packed my necessities in a suitcase, and left permanently with no goodbye. I don't regret it; they were assholes anyway. It was during those years that I started a naive drug habit. It was first a taste for smoking "That Green," which incubated into snorting "That White," which fully blossomed into shooting "That Black Junk."
I've seen kids around me stick to one or two of the same drug as long as I've been into the subculture, even beforehand. For me, however, it's always been my deal try newer, stronger, deadlier things. Gotta put another notch in my belt, so to say. I've never flirted with the bottle, though. Booze: it's just too fucking stupid. Sounds hypocritical from an unapologetic junkie? Well, fuck you! You're the one currently listening to this hypocritical junkie tell his story.
It could be worse, and I could lose an eye, my ability to walk straight, and most my teeth in bar fights, like Mario here. But I digress.
With my silent solitary game of "let's see what bad stuff I can put into me," things got outta hand really quick. There's a span of about a month that is still just completely blacked-out; I don't remember where I was, who I was with, or what I was doing. At the end of that period though, I found myself huddled up in some stranger's house I broke into to try and sleep. Coincidentally, that same stranger just happened to be the aforementioned, and appropriately name slut, Trick. So I'll let her tell her story…
i present to y'all a work of pure fiction semiautobiography. the characters are not based on any one person that i know, and none of these events actually ever happened. but i will narrate, and give y'all the oppurtunity to pick up narrating with me trough comments. only rule is "don't care, be creative".
Chapter None
So, I decided to leave that bathroom...
It's 2:22 a.m., or at least I hope it is. I just stole this watch, and it'd suck if it had already died. I rise in robotic agony to my feet and check my body for further injuries. It's become a nightly ritual: get fucked up, crawl to the toilet; bleed, vomit, pass-out, etc. The blood's dried under my nose, so I'll take this time to tell you how I have ended up in the toilet of some filthy room, on the 8th floor of the Old Central Side Hotel.
Last Sunday. The end of summer for most; yet for me, it's been summer for 5 years. The usual nocturnal mob - that is, Grace, a pretty number, not too bright, a real follower; Evan, trickster; Raphael, inexplicably known as Rap; Trick, slut; Mario, typical bull-headed type; and Yours Truly and his ego (and a damned fine one at that) - was gathered at some shit-hole diner for coffee. We're not from the city, so finding pleasant food and "lodging" is a real hunt, especially with these Cro-Magnon trailing me. Don't get me wrong, I love them like family; but since we all left our respective homes in the suburbs, and started living as gypsy drug fiends in the city; life's been hell. I could ramble on about it, but I'll spare you the whining. So, we were there in some random diner, thinking about trying to score again, but having only $20 to our collective name. That's when it was suggested: The Big One. Wait… maybe that isn't far back enough…
May, 1999. I had just graduated from high school, and what did it get me? Nothing! No hope, no dreams, no future. That's when I stopped living with my folks, and started wandering. I would spend nights, then days and nights, then weeks or months out of my parent's house. They never noticed; they were much too engrossed in yuppie jobs, and morning papers to noticed their son's constant absenteeism. So, I packed my necessities in a suitcase, and left permanently with no goodbye. I don't regret it; they were assholes anyway. It was during those years that I started a naive drug habit. It was first a taste for smoking "That Green," which incubated into snorting "That White," which fully blossomed into shooting "That Black Junk."
I've seen kids around me stick to one or two of the same drug as long as I've been into the subculture, even beforehand. For me, however, it's always been my deal try newer, stronger, deadlier things. Gotta put another notch in my belt, so to say. I've never flirted with the bottle, though. Booze: it's just too fucking stupid. Sounds hypocritical from an unapologetic junkie? Well, fuck you! You're the one currently listening to this hypocritical junkie tell his story.
It could be worse, and I could lose an eye, my ability to walk straight, and most my teeth in bar fights, like Mario here. But I digress.
With my silent solitary game of "let's see what bad stuff I can put into me," things got outta hand really quick. There's a span of about a month that is still just completely blacked-out; I don't remember where I was, who I was with, or what I was doing. At the end of that period though, I found myself huddled up in some stranger's house I broke into to try and sleep. Coincidentally, that same stranger just happened to be the aforementioned, and appropriately name slut, Trick. So I'll let her tell her story…