i've never met another heroin addict at barnes and noble part 4: "in the privacy of his home jesus wore slacks."

Sitting in a chair at the mall, charging my computer and looking up the number for the pennsylvania dmv, the patches of dirt on my skin look like camouflage.

I don't want to talk, just blend into the background, and not be noticed.

Wearing the same blue and gold flannel button down shirt, faded black jeans, beat up teal nike's (no socks), and black ski cap with greasy brown strands poking out from the front, and the back tied in a ponytail, I look up.

My eyes meet the limpid blue eyes a blond haired girl around the age of 11 or 12 walking with her mother and younger sister.

The girl smiles, and immediately says, "I really like your hair," before I can severe the contact.

"Th-thanks," I mutter out as sweetly and nervously as I possibly could.

She walked by.

She didn't say another word.

Her mother and sister didn't even seem to notice, too distracted by the near future and what lays ahead.

I stayed at the mall for another two hours, and didn't see them pass again, but today, I remembered what it was like to be an awkward kid in middle school again.

"The Barre"

i dont want to live til im 30

today, im sick.

tomorrow, im sick.

the next day? sick

yesterday? i was sick.

sick.

boohoo.

im sick.

dont come near me.

marinating in the shit

to gain an unique flavor profile,

i dont want to be touched.

or loved.

or have a conversation.

or babies.

i want to be like that

dead kitten, skull

crushed 

and 

sizzling

in the middle of 

the street

covered in 

a buzz of 

flies,

lapping up whatever

nutrition they can

from

the rotting body.

ew.

im sick.

but you're sick too.

don't you realize it?

it's what happened after

you and i were born.

but we can never be sick 

together.

so we lie in cigarette butts,

dirty dishes,

glass,

used needles,

fingerprints,

discarded tumors,

unspoken words,

dishonesty,

and darkness.

with blank minds,

and our backs turned;

two sets of eyes 

facing opposite walls.

im sick.

you're sick.
the times are sick.

it's hard to move,

but impossible to

fall asleep.

the moon is not 

our mother,

neither is the sun.

the shit is starting 

to pile up,

and you're afraid 

we will drown;

im afraid we might

learn how to swim
and save ourselves.

sick 

sick 

sick

so fucking sick.

sick of you.

sick of me.

sick from life.

i run my nails

down resurrected

veins and feel

excited but,

even more alone,

because there is 

no cure.

there are only decisions

and circumstances

that we mix 

together

in a blender,

and call existence.

i laugh,

and 

you say,

"it's not funny."

even though,

being alive totally is

in that sadistic kind

of way.

sick.
the future's sick.

im sick.

you're gone.

oh well.

it was expected.

the cross 

i will be crucified

on will not be made

of used works, dried blood,

and hiv.

no, my cross will

be made by illuminated letters

from the signs of fast food chains,

a.a./n.a. meetings,

boredom,

the low fuel light on my dashboard,

and name brand plastic shopping bags

filled with useless shit that means 

something to someone

who isn't me.

everything held together

with masking tape, saliva,

and pieces of my brain.

why eat healthy

when the end is

always so

fucking 

predictable?

reviews from a homeless junkie part 2:

Review of hanging out with other people:

Sucks. Straight up. It always starts out with the promise of being okay, and maybe, even a fun time, but eventually takes a turn for the worse. This turning point usually happens when other people start talking about their lives. You know, budgeting, relationship problems, parents, what to wear, the ethics of organic lettuce vs regular lettuce, what they hate about their new job, meditation, and the benefits of positive thinking. At this point, I need to be on a substance. At this point, I nod, smile, and agree while using the phrases, “Oh,” “Wow,” “That’s crazy,” “Yeah,” “Totally understand,” “I see where you’re coming from,” and “Interesting,” to seem like I care even though I’m not paying attention. A concerned expression in combination with the phrases above is even more convincing that I am invested in their bullshit. All this work to avoid confrontation is exhausting. And as they talk, using the phrase, “Yeah, I’m going to be roughing it over the next two months on two grand,” I compare their dreams and troubles to my own, and realize they are pussies I will never be able to relate to, and want to curb stop their skulls with my boot. I realize I wish I had xanax. I realize this world is stupid, life is pointless, and I wish I could just be a basic bitch. I realize they’ve never pawned or sold something that they loved with sentimental value. I realize they’ve never pawned or sold something that someone else loved with sentimental value. I realize it’s 12:30, I have a warrant, my car has one headlight, I’m a little drunk, and have a 15 min drive to the closest parking lot I can sleep in for the night. Oh yeah, and waking up with a hangover from hanging out with other people (not alcohol) is the fucking worst. Realizing that yes, last night did actually fucking happen. Which is why I have stopped trying and keep interactions to a minimum. Because if I didn’t I would totally have killed myself by now, which makes me think maybe I should. Shit, who knows?

1 out of 5 stars.

Review of walmart cashier in lane 17 on Sunday June 26,2016 at 9:03 pm:

Cool. Not overly friendly, and didn’t say much which I appreciated. Was patient when I was counting my change out for my purchase. And immediately reached for the hand sanitizer after our transaction and interaction was complete cause I am a dirty sweaty smelly bitch at the moment—smart move. The only negative was him saying, “Have a nice night.” I certainly cannot meet those lofty expectations, sir; I’m sorry.

 3.5 out of 5 stars

Review of the tan teenage girl in the coral pink halter top and dark blue skinny jeans with a fountain drink in one hand, and an iphone in the other walking down the middle of the university mall:

You probably didn’t notice that I thought about how to successfully rob you without getting caught, before realizing you probably don’t even carry cash, just cards. You’re lame.

1.5 out of 5 stars.

Review of the university mall security guard:

You’re cool as fuck for not kicking me out, but I just really wish you wouldn’t say shit like, “Welp, I guess I’ll be seeing you here all day again tomorrow.” Because, yeah you probably will unless you’re off or something, which makes our next interaction even more fucking awkward.

4 out of 5 stars.

Review of bon ton perfume counter workers:

Do you seriously have to check everyone’s bag or purse when they set off the military grade shoplifting alarms? Why does it matter to you ladies if someone is shoplifting? You’re still getting paid, it’s not hurting the bottom line, and they probably are shoplifting for a reason. But even if they weren’t who cares? Well except you. Never seen you catch anyone either, so that shows how good of a job you’re doing. You all suck. Fucking hate you.

0 out of 5 stars

reviews from a homeless junkie part 1: sex, heroin, and chef boyardee

Review of sex:

Overrated.

.5 out of 5 stars.

Review of heroin:

Literally the best. The FUCKING BEST!!! It will change your life forever. Take you to places you’ve never been before with people you would never speak to, and doing things you could’ve never possibly imagined. Nothing beats shooting up in a public gas station restroom or in a bathroom at your aunt’s house during a family function. Or scoring in a parking lot after waiting hours and hours for that call, and puking all over yourself on the drive up. Oh, the memories. A lot of people give it a bad rap, but all the problems I’ve ever encountered in my own experience are due to a lack of heroin, never because I have too much of it. Sure you could OD, but I mean who cares? I certainly don’t! I see it as an added bonus, because who wants to live until they’re 50? Not me!  And if you ever even consider hitting me with narcan, I will stab one of your eyes out to thank you. Anyway, the other benefits? It teaches you how to be resourceful. How to use a syringe, and find a vein better than a doctor. How to go without food and shitting for days at a time. How to burn yourself with a cigarette when you’re on the nod. How to become a better liar, which is an important quality in today’s society. And, in general, what is really truly important in life. If you have the means, I recommend you go out and get some heroin (junk, dope, down, horse, tickets, H, cheeseburgers, brown, tar, scag, blows, dark) now. Drop whatever the fuck you’re doing—I don’t care if you’re going on a run to stay fit, or tending your garden, or watching your football team lose game after game, or doing yoga, it doesn’t matter. Drop whatever the fuck you’re doing and go out and get it now!

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999⁹ out of 5 stars.

Review of chef boyardee beef ravioli:

Every time I buy this 80 cent gem, I imagined a MC coming out with a can to fog machines, bright lazer lights, and pyrotechnics at a rap concert, then screaming into the microphone, “YYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOO THE CHEF IS IN DA MOTHERFUCKING BUILDING!!!!”( or in my case my car), and the crowd going berserk like a bunch of caged reptiles on molly in the midst of a twenty four hour orgy. Ha ha. Okay, but always choose the ravioli over any other of the chef’s products, and never fuck with spaghetti-o’s—that’s pussy shit. Why? Chef’s ravioli’s are 15oz, compared to the 14.5 oz you get with the lasagna, spaghetti, and/or mac and cheese; I cannot speak for the beefaroni since they do not carry it at my local grocery connection. Also the ravioli has meat in the sauce as well as in the pasta, which I assume is a bit more nutritious and satiating. The last reason is the can is mostly stuffed with raviolis and the sauce is not used as a filler cough cough spaghetti-o’s with meatballs. They’re just great, and no stove, fire, or kitchen appliance is required, except for a fork or a spoon, but I guess you could just eat with your hands if you have to. The perfect meal for the broke hungry homeless person on the go.

4.5 out of 5 stars.

sucked into a black hole on date night

when you slap my ass

in public i think:

SEXUAL HARRASSMENT

in bold black capital letters.

when you take me to the

new big summer blockbuster in theaters,

and make out with me in the dark,

i hope i have bad breath.

i hope you notice.

i hope my bad breath infects your good breath

because i haven't brushed my teeth in three weeks
and contracted gingivitis

exactly for this very special occasion.

when you tell me,

"i love you,"

i start to peel

strips of skin

off my body

until there

is nothing left

but a smaller skeleton

resting inside a larger one;
you don't even notice.
instead, you just talk about how
bad you want me.

when you get hard

i pretend i'm high on

heroin and crack

so i can get wet

to get through this.

when you're naked

and ask me to strip,

i plan to steal 

your wallet,

and shitty family sedan,

then drive off a cliff 

in the country.

when you're inside me

sweating and moaning,

i want to abort

your cells from my body
in a bloody nebula that
swirls around the water
of the toilet,
and flush
because i have
the ability to both
create and destroy.
and sometimes
creation and destruction
are synonymous.

when you come,
i realize i never
have fun when i'm around
other people.
i realize i am only squirming

because i have to pee

and am in the mood for pizza/chicken wings,
which you mistake for an orgasm.

when you are asleep,
i tell you i'm pregnant,
and ask you to marry me
because i will only marry
someone i don't love
and never will.

deal with it.

How I Check Someone Out

With a razorblade.