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Alex and I

March 2012

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Alex and I

Rice Crispy Brains

Last Friday morning I woke up like a zombie: "BRAIIINSSSS!!! I NEED WEEEEEEED!!!!" Yeah, I know. Slightly different tune, yes, but my rebound-rebound (that is my rebound for Dalton who was a rebound for Curtis) got me some DANK leaves. Normally my morning urges beg me for coffee, cocaine, continue with the ever present whining for MCAT or sex, but lately I've been marching to an earthier tune for herb... Particularly that smoked out of an apple with a bit of clove oil. When Calvin heard this, he was only all too eager to oblige. As a dealer and someone who has been trying to recruit "apple junkies" for the last month or so, I'm sure he saw dollar signs when he heard me say that - so much so that he actually dove out of the backseat of Lex's Jeep to hug me. Of course, what do loyal would-be confidants of drug dealers do on special occasions? Offer to smoke the dealer out to earn brownie points, of course. (Which really just entails giving said dealer money since you were going to buy your herb from him anyway.) So when mister dank-nugs decided to have a birthday, oh man. I intended for all of that to happen, of course. All part of the plan and all that, but every calculating criminal knows not to get fucked up when their fucking someone over, I am a retarded criminal and decided it would be completely fine to get baked out of my skull and ended up sleeping with him. (SHIT SHIT SHHHITT!! SHITTTTTT!!! SHHHHHIIIIT!!!)

Naturally, to the unobservant outsider, this seems like a good thing. "Oh, but now that you're his booty call you can get free weed!" Um, only up to the point that the dealer ever actually gets some. There are two types of girls in the criminal world: The booty calls, and the homegirls. When trying to get to homegirl status, it's incredibly important that you don't get the brilliant idea to lower yourself to the easily attained casual fuck. (Um, hello. He's a drug dealer, he can have anyone he wants because he has good shit to sell. I've seen guys offer up their girlfriends for less than weed before.)

So, given that this place can't afford me the anonymity of the metro, there are people talking about it all over the damn place. Where normally I would be stoked for all of the good publicity, I'm actually freaked out.
He's got a friend "coming from out of town" and he has to "go chill with her for a bit." Crap, I'm out. I speak dealer. Most girls would think they'd been replaced, I know he means he's going on a deal and is being triple chill with me. DAMN. YOU'RE NOT THAT CHILL WITH YOUR HOMEGIRL. DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMMMMIT!!! Ah well. If nothing else, at least I got laid and smoked out a few times.

Hana and I broke up after a horrible trip on DOB in Fort Dodge. That place is bloody sketch, by the way. Literally everyone there is one coke, it's like being in Mexico but with less protection because the government won't propagandize American's dying of overdose on it's own soil. I don't care if people do drugs or not, they can be a good way to expand the mind, escape reality, heal the soul, and have an all around really great time. I have an issue with anyone using that can't control themselves however. If I can't pass up a line when I feel like I'm getting a cold, then I have no business doing coke. Hana isn't one of those people that can pass up the line and rolled up twenty. After dragging me around through the ghetto for two hours saying some horrible things to sketchy people, I had to flip shit on her. I demanded to be back on the bus for home no later than noon the next day. Thank god I did too. She was everything to me, and now she wont even answer my phone calls, going so far as to actually change her number. I think it was time though, a wake up call for her and a 16 hour healing process for me.

While lying alone in the bath tub, horrified by how dirty and disgusting my skin and the tile looked, I had this realization about my life. I don't feel close to very much. Halfway across the country, so far from anything I have history with, I ended up curled up in a ball in the corner with my shoes crying. I've been to concerts in those shoes, ran from cops, broke into buildings, drove stolen cars across state lines, and danced more than most ballet shoes see. My moccasins seemed to epitomize my history for the past 3 years, from the mud caked on the outsides to the dark imprints of my toes on the insides, my shoes are home. I thought about my friends that feel fake, my estrangement from my family, the odd hostility the world seems to have for my future, and I completely broke down. How did I end up in this sketch apartment in Iowa tripping on something that is clearly not acid, alone and begging the Universe to get Sean to answer his phone. Though she abhors any drug use on my part, Jazzy was an angel's voice on my phone that night. I begged the Universe to give me someone I have history with to help make that strange bathroom feel more homey.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm going to school. Working at a hotel cleaning rooms part time and getting high as hell in the evening seems better in a lot of ways. I often frown on escapism as a reason for using drugs, but sometimes I feel like it's as valid a reason as any other, somewhat like the pot calling the kettle black.



Umm... Lol my skin didn't look disgusting because I have acne (actually I am blessed with a clear complexion) I was tripping so hard that I looked dirty.