the fire follows us out

Well, it's finally happened- I have officially run out of veins. Fucking nothing left. I could always go for my neck, but... hell, I'm scared shitless. I stood in front of a mirror with my jaw open until it started aching, staring at the throbbing jug and poked it once with my rig, not deep enough to actually get a hit. Just the sight of the needle sticking out of my neck freaked me out bad. I yanked it out and puked right there in the damn bathroom sink. I just can't bring myself to do it. But if I intend to keep using, and at this point I don't really see another alternative, I'm eventually going to have to. My arms, hands, wrists, elbows, feet, ankles, legs, and knees are all collapsed. ALL collapsed. It takes me literally 30 minutes to get some blood flowing into the godforsaken thing because Lord knows I won't give up until I can taste the dope on my breath. It's the worst in the morning, because I wake up sick sick sick. If I wait 10 minutes between opening one crusty eye and pushing the plunger down, I'm crying hard. I just sit there, wipe the tears and the blood away with a strip of Charmin, and dig deep through every lump and bump on my body while my brain races: please god please god just let me get this fucking shot i'll never ask you for anything again just let me get this shot help me help me help me god i really need this right now please fucking help me get this vein ohmygod i need this shit so bad help me!!!! It's fucking pathetic, no? Ah well, that's my life!

I read on another blog (on here, actually) that it's like heroin addicts have this secret that no one else knows. He (or she?) said something along the lines of, "why buy an iPod or a big-screen TV or diamonds, they won't make you happy, but we know something that will..." Fucking lovely. He/she phrased it better than I did, I'm woman enough to admit when someone is a better writer than I. To use my own words, people in pain are like a crowd stuck in a burning building. Everyone is trying to get out of the building, out to safety, away from the pain- and they can't find a way out. But us heroin addicts- we located the fire escape, and we're sittin' pretty. But what we don't realize is that the fire follows us out. And it keeps following us. For the rest of our lives...

This has been one bitch of a depressing post, but I really can't think of anything positive to say right now. My psychiatrist dumped me as a patient without giving me refills. He sent me to get a $500 blood test and gave me an appointment for last Friday. My mammy and I got all the way to Delray Beach (butt fuck Egypt) to have his secretary (flaming whore) tell us that he has cancelled my appointment, and in fact he's not even in the office today, and that she called both me and my mammy to inform us. The thing is, she didn't call either damn one of us. I called back all the missed calls on my phone. None of em was from her. Hell, I even bit the bullet and (gasp!) actually checked my voice mail (which I never do) just to see if maybe she had left a message. No dice. That bitch is full of lies, but when I stop and think about it, it's the doc who is the flaming whore. What, am I being difficult? I'm a psychiatric patient, for chrissake! I'm supposed to be difficult, crazy, emotional, prone to outbursts, a drug addict, etc. He, on the other hand, is a psychiatrist. His chosen career path is directly dealing with these difficult, crazy, emotional, drug addicts prone to outbursts! Can a doctor just drop you like that? Is it legal? We've both left messages with FW secretary but no one has called us back. I called today and pretty much said all I'm saying now, only with a bit more profanity. I said that if he doesn't call me back by Thursday, the next call he gets will me from the American Psychiatric Association after I report his bitch ass. We should get a refund on the blood tests that he won't even give us the results of, no? If in fact he refuses to see us? That dumb bitch.

I started a new notebook, as my old one was filled with my rants. I'm a regular Dennis Miller. "Now, I don't want to go on a rant here, but..." I also wrote some more poetry, which I will publish on here as soon as I remember to bring my poem notebook with me when I come to the library. God, it'd be nice to have a 'puter at my own crib. Nice nice nice. I also wrote up some business cards on 3x5 index cards. I didn't make copies, but I wrote about 20 of 'em by hand and then put on lipstick and kissed each one. I gave out 2 so far, and both were received gratefully. On the bottom of each card it says: "Guaranteed to put a smile on your face!" Work work work, all day long.

It's over a hundred degrees out here, and not just while the sun is out. It's in the fucking 90s at midnight. Everything is in the 90s in south Florida- the temperature, the ages, and the IQs. If you add the temperature to the humidity... Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch! It's like drowning in a pot of boiling water just walking down the street. It could be 5am and you're just walking across the tracks to get a pack of cigs, but when you get to the store you will be drenched in sweat. Sometimes I wish I lived where it fucking snowed. I'll take that back come December, when it hits 60 degrees and I'm bundling up. I handle the heat WAY better than I handle the cold. Last winter it was mostly in the 80s anyway so I guess I don't have much to worry about. An Inconvienent Truth! Hahahahahahaha!

I'm a junkie hooker Republican. Did you know that people like me exist? Am I the only one? Any more of you out there? Speak out! Show yourselves, in the name of our crappy president! Bwahahahaha! Oh, and opiophile.org is back on! I'm so excited I could just shit. But I won't, cause I'm at the library computer and that would just be nasty.

"...but that's just my opinion. I could be wrong."