Just another Sunday, lying around, grimy as fuck. You know it’s bad when I’ve stopped showering. It means either the drugs have run out or the shit has hit the fan or both, as is the case now.

My hair is sticking out in oily stalks. My fingers smell like scalp from scratching my head all day. This time of the year is murder on my arthritis. If you saw my fists you’d think I’d been in a fight. The skin over my joints burns red and swollen. I can barely turn my neck and it feels like there’s a copper wire pulled tight between my shoulders.

I’m holed up in Fitz’s bedroom, with the door closed. I took the chair out from under the knob when I realized he had no intention of disturbing me. I can hear him now, humming to himself in the kitchen as he shuffles back and forth from pantry to stovetop in his four-dollar Fordam Road house slippers. He’s been communicating with me via beautiful handwritten notes on thick, official looking stationary that are shot under the door like missives from the State Department. “I’m making macchiatos, shall I leave one by the door, darling?” and “There are several NetFlix in an envelope on my desk. I’m sure you’ll find the selections ghastly, but all the same please help yourself. The DVD remote is somewhere…” I decorate the notes with sketches I’ve made of people on TV and slide them back out, hoping they make him smile.

Sterling’s come by too. Twice. She and Fitz sat in the living room and spoke in hushed tones of which I couldn’t make out a word. It must be an established fact that I’m not receiving visitors, as I waited but she didn’t try and knock on the door. I sat there with (half) the money I owed her folded up in my hand, debating on whether or not I should slide it into the hallway. I knew that’s not what she came for, but still. I wanted to do something right, something to make up for all the trouble I caused. I’m constantly ashamed at how much raw, unadulterated friendship is thrown my way. I’m like a vat of acid, sizzling up the good will of others before it can make a splash.

The gray autumn light and music from cars passing out on the street and the overall sober dilemma of not knowing what to do with myself takes me back to the first years of high school, when I was still such a nerd that I’d get stomach aches on Sunday nights just thinking of school the next morning. I’m sitting here with the desk lamp on, running Google image searches on “lascivious” and “yellow toilet” and “cum on cheek”. I’m like a vampire with the results—taking what I need and sucking the life out of it. Renaming, repackaging…making lies out of truth and designs out of the lies…

I’m trying to create steam from a single grain of salt, just like that DJ Shadow song.

Peace to all my peoples out there who are scraping at their pipes and not answering their phones.

My day one AND my day two prop list peoples…

Your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/baby mama/trifling whore might put you down to your fucked-up face and your job might be slowly torturing you while they work to make you’re position redundant and your ride might make all these funny sounds instead of starting up, and the bus might not slow down for you and dinner is always the same lame shit and the porn site stole your money and you spilled sauce on your only pair of nice pants and every day you get a little older and a little more trapped but to me you’re a hero, to me you’re the Bestest in the Westest, the fucking next wave due any second to crash down on all those unsuspecting culture vulture motherfuckers…

Fucking Conde Nast cameltoe sportin bitches.

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