im sorry. i know i need to do better.
i have a lot of ideas, but i'm just a lazy bastard. see fuck up.
too many fast food bathrooms, and backseats of cars in a grocery store parking lots,
observing blood going up a tube, then back down.
keep a look out.
be quick,
so no one sees.
light up a cig.
and we are out.
covered in puke after the ride up.
laughing about it now after the miracle cure: this time remy martin.
but knowing the clock is always ticking with each passing second injecting more anxiety into my mind.
we need money.
the sickness is in the mail.
and there's no return to sender address.
in this game of russian roulette, let's hope for the best.
