How did it come to this? Like the scars that line my wrists it's self inflicted if I'm honest, I knew the risks but I played the game anyway. At first it was sweet I was in control and I gave in to my curiosity, thing is in this particular game control and experimentation can give way to addiction. The burning desire that makes you sick to your stomach causing you to break out in a cold for just one more hit. Of course one is never enough. Sometimes I wonder if any of us are really truly in control of our lives. We're all subject to circumstance whether we like it or not. Some might call it fate, others would call it the uncertainty of some fuck-wit with a chip on his shoulder coming round the corner of some shady back alley one night and slipping a hunting knife into the base of the skull. It doesn't kill you out right but instead killing off parts of your brain turning you into a vegetable for the rest of your supported life. In fact it would have been a kindness if the vicious bastard had finished you off after he'd taken your wallet that contained baby pictures of your children.
It wasn't always like this, I admit I was never the perfect kid I'd be lying through my rotting teeth if I made such a claim but I had dreams and ambition and that can be enough to get you somewhere. They're gone now. All's faded and gone like the patterns on the peeling , damp wall paper in this shitty house. It's funny in a morbid way, the place is a giant metaphor for my life. That is; it has so much potential, well it did now it's just a festering mess held together by... well that's just it, I have no idea how either haven't completely caved in. The place is a disgrace, I can't remember what colour the carpet was when I first moved myself in here, now it's a mish-mash of different stains and burns some from booze, some from food, dirt from shoes, hot-rocks, random pyromanicy and the rest I just don't want to know about. There's used needles scattered all about the place just waiting for you to tread on, which is why there are so many shoe tracks, they are a must if you don't want your feet poked and stabbed to ribbons. The only cutlery I have are spoons; vital if you want to burn up some rock. If you were to actually cook a meal in the kitchen you'd be lucky if all you came away with was salmonella, bits of fat spat out of the frying pan are stuck all over the ceiling, the microwave's front is broken so you have to run to the other room if you don't want a good dose of radiation from it. I remember one night Morphine Sue was round, pregnant, again; fuck knows whose it is. Anyway the microwave is on the counter at about stomach height and she decides she wants a Rustler's burger after smoking a few J's with me, so she bangs it in and wacks it on. Meanwhile I'm watching in a sort of bemused terror as she stretches putting her swelling abdomen even closer to it. I didn't say anything all I could think was Fuck me, she's gonna give birth to a Flap-Jack. I think I was just too baked at the time doesn't really matter because with the amount of dope and other shit that woman is on if her spawn doesn't come out as a flap-jack it'll be a fucking cabbage. Moving on the bathroom looks like a bomb site, the tank to the toilet was smashed a long time ago, courtesy Drop Dead Fred: he's not called that because he fondly reminds me of Rik Mayall's character in the film of the same name but because he did actually drop dead of a heart attack, Fred was a fiend for coke. If you want to flush the toilet you have to fill up a jug and poor it in what remains of the tank. The shower has some sort of fungus developing in the corners, there's no curtain so the water which is cold because I can't afford heating as well as my drug habit goes all over the bare floor boards, they're starting to get quite rotten. The room stinks of mildew and mould, most of the tiles have come away as well, there used to be some quaint ceramic patterns of boats and boat related items on them; anchors for example, you know the stupid sort of decorations that your grandma would love if she saw them and would say "Oh look at that, isn't that lovely". And now we come to the mirror on the wall, so many time it's been pulled off and been used to cut up and hoover lines up off. It's a resilient mirror I must admit, I can't count the number of times it's been clumsily trod on, it's even survived Drop Dead Fred raving to some Dub-step all over it. It's a scanner and like Keanu Reaves in that film I see myself through it, darkly. It's seen a few too many rough nights, the cracks are clearly visible round the edges and if things carry on like they have been it's only a matter of time, which will probably be sooner rather than later, till it is completely and irrevocably broken.