Is it that I became lonely or was I always lonely and didn’t realize it? I also wonder if it is that I prefer being lonely but won’t say that out loud because that’s a really emo thing to say….
It had been a really long night….I mean, this night had been like 96 hours long.
The night started well, and I don’t remember exactly how, except to say it started with a “BANG”, but then that’s how all of my good nights (and days) started.
I was at the end of the run and as much as I hated to admit it, the shit was done.
Rocky was being a bastard and only buying crack and the crack he would get was nothing but SHIT.
It was so horrible, bleach couldn’t break that shit down, much less, vinegar.
He was sharing a little of the dope that he had, but since I was a junkie and only wanted to shoot it, I was having to reduce the crack-cocaine back to its former self, and it took a whole bunch of that shitty ass crack to make anything worth shooting.
The second to last 40 Rocky got was so bad that it ruined my rig. My needle was totally clogged and totally fucked, and wouldn’t you know that as soon as my last syringe was destroyed an 11th hour prayer was answered, in the form of straight powder.
When he finished smoking the 40 of shitty crack he just bought, Rocky wanted ‘one more’ and had to purchase it from another dope man.
Most of Rocky’s dopemen delivered. Many of the dope sellers in Mall City, one of the most notorious Baton Rouge hoods, which was situated right across the main highway from the semi-ritzy neighborhood Rocky lived in, knew that Rocky was big-ballin, shot callin, on the 19th of every month. Honestly, Rocky really was big ballin every 19th.
I gotta give him that.
However, this night must have been around the tenth of the month, because there was no ballin and no shot callin, going on there, except by me, and like I said, my rig just got clogged.
The problem was that now I had no rig and this dopeman Rocky just called brought powder.
Wow. Um…it was good powder, too. I was furious. Absolutely fucking furious.
As soon as the dopeman left, Rocky ran to the kitchen to grab a spoon, some water and some baking soda. I sat sweetly and patiently in the striped wingback chair which sat adjacent to Rocky’s king size four poster bed and nightstand.
I sat there like a good little girl, and waited patiently.
Rocky returned to his bedroom and set about to cook him some crack. He dropped a load of powder, worth about twenty dollars, onto the spoon, added a little water and a little baking soda and held the spoon up in his right hand, while he held the flame from his lighter, under the spoon, in his left hand.
It only took a couple of seconds and the water in the spoon was boiling and bubbling. Rocky moved the fire around the bottom of the spoon for a few more seconds and then, ‘VOILA’…..CRACK.
Rocky then used the end of a safety pin and pulled up the oily part that was now localized in the middle of the watery spoon, bubbling. When he got enough dope on the end of the pin to make a good hit, he put it on the end of his crack pipe and lighted the fire again.
Crack sizzles when you first hit the rock, and that’s what I heard before I saw Rocky’s face get red. He then exhaled more smoke than Snoop Dogg in any of his videos.
The difference was the smoke and the way it smelled. I hate the way crack smells.
Now that Rocky was high though, it was my turn to get my hit. I went ahead and asked him for a big portion. I told him I would not ask him for anymore if he just went ahead and gave all, right then, of what he would have given me, anyway.
He did as I asked, but there was still the problem of no syringe, and that was a bitch cause I could tell by the smell and by the way the shit cooked down that it was some good dope.
Still, he gave me my portion and I took and immediately hid it in Rocky’s house, grabbed my keys, and left.
I had to get a needle.
I don’t know about where you live, but where I live, it’s not illegal to sell syringes to non-diabetics, but it is the policy of most every store to refuse to sell needles to non-diabetics.
This one of THE MOST TRIFLING ASS, NO GOOD, PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT STORE POLICIES EVER THOUGHT UP BY A BOARD OF DIRECTORS….who don’t know shit about life.
Fuck them and fuck their store policies.
I went to two different Walgreens locations and was immediately turned away.
Now I was really pissed. I had some good dope to do and these mothafuckas weren’t coming off any rigs.
Since it was almost four in the morning, there weren’t very many stores open. I had already tried the two Walgreens and there was no way I was going to Wal-Mart. That would be a definite “no”.
The only store left was Rite Aid and I knew they were going to be cocksuckers about it, too.
I pulled into their parking lot, put on my game-face and walked into the store.
It was so bright and empty at 4 A.M. YIKES. ARGGHHHH…..I hated all those bright lights piercing a hole through my soul.
I went to the pharmacy, which was open 24 hours. This particular Rite Aid was the only location with the 24-hour pharmacy. I went straight to the “pick-up” window and there was a pharmacist there, just ready to wait on me.
“I need a pack of U-100 syringes, please”, I said.
The pharmacist replied, “ok, have you filled with us before?”
I said, “no, ma’am, my family and I are here for a small vacation and the airport lost one of our bags. My mother is diabetic and her syringes were in the bag that we didn’t get.”
She said, “I’m sorry, but you’ll need a ‘diabetic card’, for me to sell you the syringes.”
I said, “LOOK BITCH, IF YOU DON’T SELL ME A BAG OF NEEDLES, I WILL GO FIND ONE IN THE DUMPSTER, USE IT, THEN FIND EVERYONE IN YOUR FAMILY AND FUCK THEM.”
The pharmacist replied, “Ok, I will sell you these, but don’t ever come in my store again.”
I said, “OK.”
My mind is racing. I am not going to go get another bottle of vodka because I just broke up with my boyfriend and if I got pulled over with a DUI, I would have no one to bond me out of parish prison (so I’m obviously not manic tonight).
I am pretty drunk and still have one more drink left in my TAAKA BOTTLE.
Yeah, mf’s, I said, “TAAKA”, I don’t care if you make fun of me. In fact, I’m quite used to it.
So, I’m sitting thinking about what I could write about and here it is:
I was sitting in my reading circle in my first grade classroom.
My reading circle was small because I was in an upper-level reading group. My step-grandmother taught me to read when I was four.
I always hated that bitch, except for that one thing….she taught me to read at four years old….that was pretty cool.
I also watched her die about 15 years later…I saw it…no one else was looking….I was the one who saw her die, and told my parents.
The kid, like three chairs down to the left of me, was taking his turn reading out-loud from the designated literature.
All of a sudden….THE FUCKING CEILING CAVED IN……
No, seriously, the ceiling really fell to the floor. I remember there were big rectangular fluorescent lights in the ceiling of the classroom and one of them almost hit my best friend, Chrissy’s head. I can still see it hanging a couple of inches, at the most, by one wire, on top of her head, swinging back and forth.
That was weird.