Kurt stirred in his sleep as a legion of iron gods paraded through his village demanding blood. Their war cries rang out and consumed his spirit, and for that brief uncertain moment when he was passing from the unconscious to the waking world, his heart was gripped in a pure and unrelenting terror. This feeling, which was simultaneously unbearable and exhilarating, slowly subsided as he summoned the strength to open his eyes and return to the more sensible yet nonetheless dismal reality that was his life..

The freight train hauling concrete mix along the east coast line was roaring by his tent like a thousand miles of thunder. He clutched his jacket around his head and tried to shield himself, but the sound penetrated right down to the bone as the ground trembled beneath him. Once it passed he could still hear the horn blaring half a mile to the south. He gave a spiteful smile at the thought of the next unsuspecting sucker it would abruptly awake, as he reached for a cigarette out of the softpack in his jacket. Three left. I better make these count, he thought.

He leaned over, cigarette in mouth, and flicked the wheel of his clear plastic lighter. An unexpectedly massive flame dashed up and scorched his eyebrows. “Shit!” he yelped and dropped the lighter between his knees.

It was one of those cheap types with a removable flame guard so that you could adjust the size of the light.

Kurt pushed the dial to the left and flicked the wheel again, puffing intently on his first smoke of the day, with a lingering smell of burnt hair that seemed to mix in with the cigarette smoke and sting his eyes.

He was squinting and still rubbing his burnt eyebrow when he heard footsteps outside, and a fat scaly hand reached around the flap of his tent and pulled it open, with all of South Florida’s sunshine flooding in and setting his home ablaze.

“Harry,” Kurt groaned, lit cigarette in mouth, smoke drifting out with each word, “Close the god damned door.” Harry was a grim silhouette surrounded by the intense light of a thousand vengeful angels, which made even more visible the waves of smoke which were surrounding him. He looked like a homeless Jesus, with long and unkempt hair, glistening in the intense early morning sun.

“Not much of a door.” Harry answered glibly.

“No. If it was, you’d still be outside.”

Harry glanced at Kurt, who was still trying to feel which part of his eyebrow had burnt off and gave a satisfied chuckle.

“What the hell’d ya do to your face?”

“I ate yer mothers crotch as she wept.”

Harry shook his head. “I can still smell the burnt hair.”

“Bring anything back?” Kurt asked.

“What’s wrong, Kurt? Not glad to see me?”


“I’m the one who’s useless? It’s 10 o clock and here you are lounging around like a bum.”

“At least I’m good at being a bum. You’re not good at anything other than givin me headaches.”

“I got us that score last night didn’t I?”

“You almost got us killed.”

“But I didn’t, did I?”

“We’re not doing that shit anymore.”

“There you go again. Always pissing and moaning about what’s wrong with the world, but ya don’t do anything to set it right. You got lots of ideas about what we shouldn’t do to make money, how about let’s hear about what we should do.”

“You already know.”

“What? Beg? It’s degrading and not even that profitable. We can do better.”

“A junkie who’s too good to beg. Now that’s useful.”

“A junkie is still a man. We’re men, we’ve got to be men. We go holding out our hands with a sad look on our face and then what are we? Not men. No better than children.”

“I like children.”

“They’re savages, Kurt. Children have no sense of honor.”

“But conmen do.”

“It’s only junkies that we’re ripping off.”

“Junkies like us.”

“Exactly. Junkies like us. And we’ve been ripped off before too. It’s all in the life. They should know better than to be buying from people like us.”

“It’s too dangerous. I’m done with it.”

“One little scare and you’re out like that?”

“One little scare and I’m out like that.”

Kurt got up and brushed his teeth with some salt water, while Harry urinated in the oil funnel that they used as a toilet. The tent was a pretty sophisticated set up, all things considered. The funnel sat on a pipe which ran down a slope and emptied out on the side opposite of the tent’s entrance. The tent itself was propped up against the side of an old abandoned warehouse.

It was fastened out of a blue camping tarp and some metal poles they stole from a local scrapyard. The land had a slight slope to it which climaxed at the warehouse, so when it rained the tent was usually safe from puddles. Kurt had always been extremely proud of the tent: most of it had been his invention, though Harry had come up with the idea of where to get the poles.

The two of them finished their business and started making their way towards the strip. ‘The strip’ was a lucrative section of real estate for panhandlers, bait and switch scammers, Chinese women selling bootleg DVD’s: men of the lowest order in general. It was an organic rainbow of all God’s botched creations. The strip itself was a series of plazas and strip malls at the intersection of two wide, busy thoroughfares.

The two streets had long, narrow cement dividers known as islands, which ran between the traffic. These made ideal posts for panhandlers to beg the cars stopped in the turning lanes. There were only 4 islands at any given intersection, so these positions were the most coveted benefit a street beggar could have, other than a missing limb or a starving dog.

Kurt and Harry walked along the train tracks, their minds humming a silent melody as the warm salty breeze kissed their faces. The trains’ path ran north straight towards the strip, and it made for a better walk since there were no obnoxious cars driving along it, only the occasional iron behemoth hauling sand or other raw materials.

The locals had great fun throwing shit at street people from moving cars, so a walk along the tracks was much more tranquil. There was tall overgrown grass on eitherside of the tracks which was mostly brown but laced with green and yellow undertones. It swayed with the wind and made for good company under the high South Florida sun.

“Storm’s on it’s way.” Harry remarked, after a few blocks of silence.

“Nothing we can do about that.” Kurt answered.

“They say it’s a big one. Cat 5. Gave the Haitians a hell of a hard time. Flood of biblical proportions. Dead bodies everywhere. I read about it in the news down at Pablo’s place.”

“The Haitians are always dying in one way or another.”

“Pablo says he’s gonna weather the storm in a hospital bed while the rest of us are out here ducking for cover.”

“A hospital bed?”

“Had a bottle of Puerto Rican rum in one hand, and a bottle of cough syrup in the other. He’d take a swig of the rum, then wash it down with the medicine. Said he was going to keep at it till both bottles were empty.”

“What’s that gonna accomplish?”

“He says it’ll get his vitals all good and messed up so the doctors wont know what’s wrong with him. Then they’ll have to detain him at least until the storm is over.”

“That’s brilliant.” Kurt admitted. “Why don’t you join him?”

“There’s no honor in faking illness.”

“You and your honor. You use that excuse every time there’s something you don’t have the courage to do. Since when is there honor in the life of a common criminal?”

“You know I don’t mean to be a criminal, Kurt. But at least a criminal relies on himself. A lion is a criminal in his own right.”

“A lion is a hunter. A hunter isn’t the same as a criminal, you fool. A hyena is a criminal. Steals the lion’s kill cause he doesn’t have the wherewithal to earn it for himself. That’s you, a foolish hyena cackling about honor.”

“What does that make you?” Harry retorted, with a feverish smile plastered on his crooked face.

Kurt said nothing.

“That’s right.” Harry went on, emboldened by his friend’s silence. “It makes you less than a hyena. It makes you less than the parasitic worm that lives off all the hyena’s filth. It makes you nothing more than a moment of doubt that flashes through the hyena’s brain, a whining devilish cry that begs him to forget about honor.”

Kurt smiled at this.

“You can make me into all that if you want,” Kurt answered at length, “but you aint doin yerself the least bit of good. You can make me into your own doubts and your own weakness. Go on and make a Devil of me, if that makes you feel better. I’m only reminding you of what you already know.”

“Whatever.” Harry replied, feeling himself the victor. “Got any smokes left?”

Kurt reached into his pack and pulled out the last two cigarettes. He handed one to his friend and clenched the other one firmly between his own lips. He lit his and then passed the lighter to Harry. Both cigarettes were fired up and released serpentine columns of grey dust which dispersed and intermingled in the breeze. The smoke trailed behind the two men as they continued on their trek.

The tracks ran through a desolate stretch of civilization’s underbelly. To the east was the town’s industrial sector; a series of wharehouses and salvage yards with jagged razor wire fences to protect the precious piles of discarded metal from the barbarians that inhabited this particular wasteland. To the west was a latin barrio; a series of single and double story complexes that were ill attended and surrounded by rusty and trampled chain link fences. Some of the yards had cheap plastic pools in them which the local kids used to keep cool in the summer.

Many of the yards had broken down cars and trucks parked in them; some were sitting on cinder blocks, others sat on wheels which were not even worth salvaging. Most of the yards had clothes lines with colorful garments strung along on wooden clothes pins. In the daytime it was not unusual to pass by one of these yards and catch glance of a latin housewife, short and plump in stature, stringing up clothes and quietly humming sweet melodies from another place and time .

Every so often, between the stretches of residential dwellings, there’d be a church, standing tall and proud above the rest of the landscape. The churches were usually nothing at all like the surrounding dwellings: while the houses deteriorated from lack of upkeep both on the part of the inhabitants and of the slumlords who collected their rent checks, the churches thrived and glistened with well attended yards and magnificent architecture.

The locals set aside weekly portions of their allowance to give to the church of their choice, and they took a great amount of pride in these monuments. Kurt and Harry were approaching such a church when they heard a distinct voice shouting cries of divine wisdom.

“GOD IS HERE” The voice shouted, “THE LORD IS UPON US.”

“What’s he saying?” Harry asked his friend.

“Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me.” Kurt answered.

“Look.” Harry pointed. Outside the church was the lone street preacher, a man of maybe 50 with a receding hairline which carved a distinct arch into his greying afro. He had on a worn brown suit which had faded from the sun, and was holding a stack of pamphlets in his left hand, with his head bowed solemnly and his right hand on his heart. He marched slowly up and down the sidewalk outside the church entrance, pamphlets in hand and prayer in heart.


“God damn right.” Kurt agreed.

“Let’s go see what this guy’s about.” Harry insisted. The two men began their approach down the slight hill from the tracks and into the street when the street preacher noticed them and looked up slightly but without missing a step in his march.


“You from the church?” Harry asked the man. The preacher stopped marching and looked straight up at Harry.

“Hello, my friend.” He smiled at Harry and held his hand out for a shake. Harry shook the preacher’s hand as firmly as he could and looked straight into his eyes until his grip had released. He thought this an effective way to display honor. At length Harry felt comfortable reiterating his initial question.

“Well are ya?”

“From the church?” The preacher shook his head. “A man of God needs no worldly temple. I am my own temple. Every willing man is a temple of God.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“The Devil’s gotta hold on ya, that’s what. For him to release his grip, a man must be worthy and willing. Only the Lord can make Satan release his grip.”

“What makes you so sure the Devil has us and you have Jesus? Maybe you’ve got it wrong.”

The preacher smiled.

“I look at the scriptures.” He replied. “Ever hear tell of the whore of Babylon?”

“I’ve heard of lots of whores. Couldn’t be sure.”

“No. The Whore of Babylon. I’m talking about scripture. The Spirit of unrepentant hedonism and gleeful self-destruction.”

“And what’s that, exactly?”

The preacher paused to look Harry up and down.

“You’re shaking, boy.” He told Harry with a gentle smile.

Harry looked somewhat embarrassed. “Nerves, I guess.”

“Nerves? Or are you on that shit? Or coming off that shit? One way or the other, don’t play me for a fool. I’m here to help.’

Harry looked dead down at the ground for a time without saying anything. The tension in the air was palpable.

“That’s the Whore of Babylon dutifully doing her number on you, boy. The spirit of self-destruction. The Serpent in the Garden hissing temptful visions into the ear of the virgin Eve. Vice and sin in excess. Everything in excess. When was the last time you had one beer and stopped at that? You probably can’t even remember. When was the last time you smoked one rock and left it at that? That probably never happened.

Once you had one, you had as many as you could get your hands on, no matter who you had to rob or back-stab. Your mom, your family, your friends… gradually you pushed them all away. They didn’t want to abandon you. You forced their hand. Bit them one too many times until they finally got the message. Like Aesop’s scorpion, you are what you are. And now here you are. The Whore of Babylon has you squarely in her death spiral. Cycling in a hopeless vortex back into her eternal womb. Where you come from. Where you belong. Right where she wants you.”

A silent tear streaked Harry’s sun baked face.

The preacher’s face lighted up and he reached an arm out to embrace this broken man. As he lay his palm flat on Harry’s shoulder, he began his sermon.a

“LORD, PLEASE HEAL THIS MAN..” he declared

Harry looked at the preacher pleadingly.


At the last word, Harry looked down in shame and tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes.


Harry began to quietly cry. The preacher wailed and cried with him with his hand planted firmly on his shoulder. Almost egging him on. It was almost like Harry, being a man with pride, had some reservations about outward displays of emotion and the preacher, with his boisterous and self righteous air, gave him the confidence to cry louder. The preacher wailed louder than Harry, and Harry felt somewhat obliged to increase his volume as well, not wanting to be outdone in his own moment of salvation. This was his time to shine, after all. This was his chance and he didn’t intend to miss it.

Even Kurt got in the circle and joined in. He silently put his hands on the shoulders of the other two men. He wasn’t quite as committed or enthusiastic as the other two, but all the same he didn’t want to be left out altogether. In a situation like this, it almost feels rude not to join the crowd. As the three of them gathered into a pitiful circle in the middle of the cracked cement sidewalk, Kurt took a good look at his friend Harry. Harry was looking at the ground, trembling and visibly shaken.


At this point, Harry looked up at the preacher.

“That’s right,” the preacher said, nodding at Harry “you’re better than this. God has bigger plans for you than this here.”

Harry looked solemnly at the preacher. “What plans?” he asked.

The preacher just smiled.

Harry got frustrated. “What plans??” he demanded,.

The preacher smiled again. “That’s really up to you. You wanna serve the lord, or you wanna keep serving yourself? You already see what kinda boss you make. You’ll run yourself into the ground chasing a high you can never get back. You’ll work your fingers to the bone with nothing to show for it. No money, no family, not even a pot to piss in. Just a fleeting memory of a high you once felt that you spend the rest of your life trying to get back.”

“So what do I have to do?” Harry begged.

“Admit you’re broken. Accept your shortcomings and sins and give up control. Give it up to the lord.”

“Alright. I will.”

A smirk snuck across the preacher’s lips. “You sure about that?” he asked.

“I’m sure.” Harry assured him. “What do I need to do?”

“Repeat after me.

[preacher has Harry recite the prayer to be saved. Will look it up later]

“That’s it?” Kurt looked incredulous.

“Now he just needs to be baptized” the preacher responded.

“How do I do that?” Harry asked.

“We need some holy water” the preacher told him. With that, he went to his car parked along the side of the street and retrieved a bottle of water, prayed over it a moment, and brought it to them.

“That’s holy water?” Harry asked.

“Sure is” the preacher smiled gently.

“It says Aquafina” Kurt chuckled.

“It was Aquafina. It’s been blessed. Now it’s holy water.” The preacher said sternly.

Kurt smiled. “You better hope there’s no backwash in there, Harry.”

“Enough, Kurt.” Harry told him. He turned to the preacher. “I’m ready.”

[preacher baptizes Harry]

“So we’re done now? I’m saved?” Harry asked him.

“You’re only just getting started.” The preacher told him. “You’ve got a long journey ahead of you. Getting saved is the easy part. Staying in Christ is what’s hard. You need to take some time and reflect on your sins. Tell them to the lord. You don’t need to tell them to me, or anyone else for that matter. You need to take it to God. Let his holy blood wash away your sins. He died so that you could be redeemed. He knew the weight was too much for you to bear alone. He don’t need you to be perfect, all he needs you to do is try. Be sincere. Repent for your sins and try not to repeat them. If you slip up, repent again and really mean it. Reflect on why you sin. Try to cut the devil off at the source. It’s a never ending battle but with God on your side, and only with God on your side, you can overcome temptation and crush the head of the serpent with your heal. ‘For though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.’ That’s what the scripture says. Read the scripture. Meditate on it. Try to let it live through you. Do all of this, and then, just then, you might be redeemed. Good luck to you.”

With that, the preacher handed him a pamphlet and, feeling he had done a good morning’s work, got in his car and bid his new convert farewell “What should I have for lunch?” he asked himself as he started the car. Mexican sounded good. He pulled off and started down the street. He had a vanity plate that read YESL0RD.

Kurt turned to his friend. Harry still had a countenance of deep contemplation. When the preacher’s car was out of sight, Harry reluctantly threw the pamphlet in the trash.

“Thank God,” Kurt chuckled. “I thought you were really buying that nonsense.”

“I was…” Harry mumbled, somewhat absent, still lost in thought.

“Well?” Kurt asked “You feel any different then? Or was that just a waste of good water?”

Harry was still looking into the distance, down the street where the preacher’s car had gone, almost as if he was expecting him to come back. Surely that wasn’t all he had to tell him…

“Didn’t you hear a word he said?” Harry turned to Kurt.

“Sure,” Kurt answered. “apparently God is here…”

Harry shook his head, “You didn’t hear him at all. You were just waiting for him to stop talking.”

“It was a long wait…” Kurt smiled.

“We’re living like animals, Kurt. Do you really feel good about our life?”

“I never said I did”

“But you didn’t acknowledge that you don’t, either.”

Kurt looked away and pretended not to hear him. The two of them trudged on in begrudging silence. In silence, the air was growing heavier with a dense humid heat, as the sun inched its way towards its apex.

On days like this you could almost smell the heat. Like the sun was slowly cooking the town’s filth lightly laced with the residual moisture from the night before on a vast concrete frying pan.

A beam of sweat trickled down Kurt’s lip, and he savored the bittersweet nectar of his own filth for a moment. Reminds you that you are still living, despite all resistance the universe arbitrarily dishes out. Indifferent to your suffering.

What difference does your suffering make? Kurt pondered. You’re just a snail drying out in the sun. A snail with a hangover.

As they crossed the street and approached a series of sunbaked mud yellow duplexes, a door opened as someone let their cat outside. As the door closed behind the cat, it seemed to change it’s mind and went back to waiting patiently by the door to be let back in.

Kurt smiled.

“Dumb cat. Should’ve stayed inside. Fuckin housepets Harry

“That’s just like life, though, isn’t it.” Kurt replied.

“How so?”

“Just a series of doors you wait to open. Always thinking happiness is on the other side. Once I get through this one I’ll be set. Only to find out that there’s always another door waiting.”

“Or another hit waiting. I just need one more and I’ll be good. Then I’ll get my shit together.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, now that you say it”

Harry stopped and looked at Kurt with a look of contempt.

“Haven’t you heard a word the preacher said, Kurt? Or a word you yourself said, just earlier? About the cat and the door?”

“Sure, I heard alright. God is here and the cat’s probably still waiting for his owner to open the door. Maybe God will let him in instead.”

“You’re just an Atheist.” Harry scowled. “Just a cynic. Poor me, poor me. That’s you, Kurt. You think God owes you something yet you don’t even believe there’s a God around to owe you.”

“Poor me.” Kurt smiled in agreement. “Sounds about right. I am poor and don’t expect any help from the angels any time soon. You see any angels around here, Harry? You get one speech from a street preacher and you’re ready to join a convent. You’ve been waiting for a message like that for some time. For someone to reassure you that there’s some higher purpose to whatever the fuck you wanna call this life. You’re an easy sucker. An easy mark willing to jump on the first imaginary train to heaven.”

Harry scowled. “Yeah Kurt. You got it all figured out. That’s cause you’re so smart. You know all the answers. You say the words and let them linger in the air, maybe even take a moment to appreciate their brilliance, but they don’t mean a thing to you in the end. They’re empty. Everything about you is empty. I heard some hard truths in that preacher’s speech that I know you heard too but want to ignore because it’s not convenient. Maybe he’s wrong about Jesus and the water saving me. I don’t know about that part. But I know that whore he was talking about. I know her well and I know you do too.”

Kurt smirked. “Look, There’s Tim. He’s a smart kid. Let’s ask what he thinks about all this.”


Pill mills of South FL

PT 1:

So I was living with my dad as a young man in my early twenties.  I was working at Walmart, and my life was gradually going nowhere.

He came down with terminal cancer, and so it came down to me to look after him. He had been making an alright living till the housing market crashed.

We had struggled all our lives until he finally got sober. Then his concrete coating business finally caught some steam. Though it was all under the table.

I tried many times to urge him to try to make it legit but he was always too paranoid about making any waves to attract the attention of the IRS. But nonetheless he started making some decent money. Of course we never moved out of the hood. But we had money. For a while anyway.

Then one day I got the call. He had wrecked his van. His new work van. Had choked on some coffee and passed out. Hit a palm tree and flipped the van forwards. 10 grand down the drain on the van. 30 grand hospital bill.

Not long after that the recession hit. South Florida was one of the first places to feel the hit in our real estate market. For decades the expansion seemed infinite.

We had a family friend who paid 30k on a place in 1990, fixed it up slightly and sold it for 120k in 2002. We watched as bulldozers moved in and entire gated neighborhoods started being erected by the city block.

By the time the bubble finally burst, overnight there were suddenly 30 story high rises sitting on the sun kissed coast with no tenants. Entire cookie cutter gated communities had been laid down block by block with no seeming return on investment. And now there were far too many of them to justify further building. And so dad’s business slowed to a crawl.

PT 2:

Not long after that he started pissing blood and so finally felt convinced to go to the hospital and get checked out. That’s when the prognosis came. Bladder cancer spread into the bone. A year or less to live. And so it was written.

Even though my dad was sober for 10 years, he knew I drank and could tell I was also smoking weed. Occasionally he would hint to me he wanted some. “You know, they prescribe that to cancer patients…”

I would suggest maybe I get him some, and he’d say no. Eventually, I decided to just get him some anyway. I explained to him he shouldn’t suffer more than he needs to.

He was already on oxy and fetanyl, and that didn’t properly offer him relief.  The weed finally gave him some appetite, and we would smoke a blunt and watch Family Guy and actually enjoy ourselves a bit.

My weed dealer was a Jamaican guy from work named Sebastian. After work, I followed him to his apartment to pick up an ounce. Since I was buying for both me and the old man, I divided the bag into two equal sized smaller bags, as Sebastian rolled a blunt.

He was constantly smoking blunts. Anytime I hung out with Sebastian, I knew I would be getting blitzed.

He rolled blunt after blunt, and would hardly seem get high. Then he’d complain he wasn’t making enough money selling weed.

The conversations between me and Sebastian were very simple, very predictable. In short, he always had problems. Problems he liked to articulate outloud, pontificate over verbally.

Unfortunately, though he had problems, problems he liked to share, I rarely had answers.

But luckily enough, it didn’t matter, because he did. He had both problems and answers. And he would articulate them outloud.

As Sebastian fleshed out his problem-and-answer laced monologue, we continued to pass the blunt back and forth.

I started to really feel it. I looked at Sebastian and he didn’t seem at all phased. His eyes had the same dim, bloodshot expression they always had. And he continued to speak.

Meanwhile, I could hardly keep my composure while pretending to follow his train of thought. I felt like I was balancing an angel’s asshole on my head.

His girl came out from the bedroom and took one look at me.

“Boy, you look ZOOTED.” She announced.

“Go back in the room,” Sebastian told her calmly. “Me and my man here have something to discuss.”

This got my attention. He asked me if I would like to make some money on the side. I asked him what kind of money.

He responded I can give you $200 to walk into a building, use your name and your face, and walk out of the building with a prescription for some pills.

At first I was skeptical, but over time, Sebastian convinced me that this was an easy job. That all I was doing was taking the risk of putting my name and face out there. And that there was so many people who are doing the same thing that the likelihood of this ever coming back on me was virtually nonexistent.

He then asked me do I have any friends who would also be interested in this deal. I told him that I did and so I recruited my friend Will.


PT 3: 

It was before sunrise that I arrived at Sebastian’s apartment. He rolled a blunt once I got there, and we started smoking it. He asked if we could use my car if he paid for the gas. $100 extra on top of the original $200, I said, cause of the added risk. $50, he offered. $100 or nothing, I insisted. He didn’t bite. Alright, then, $50.

We rode off into a haze of blunt smoke and South Florida sunrise. Will and his family had moved out of the hood and into a gated community. We approached Will’s complex, and I observed that all the houses had the same profile. Neapolitan coated concrete walls, Spanish tile roof.

There is something grotesque about Floridian architecture. It’s all like some cheap plastic imitation of a classical Mediterranean city that has stood through endless cycles of oscillating empires and barbarian warlords.

Except this is all brand new. All contrived. All shoe horned into the image that Floridan bosses and city planners are trying to cultivate as the ultimate tropical tourist destination.

Planning for tourists means faking just about everything. People hate confronting reality while on vacation.

The trees are imported. The architecture bastardized and contrived. The people imported from every corner of the country and various Caribbean and Latin American countries. The culture borrowed from the homelands of these transient souls. None of this existed before air conditioning, Disney and cocaine.

Sebastian and I pulled up to Will’s house early in the morning on a weekday. I knocked on the door and waited. Eventually Will came to the door, and he was holding a folder with some papers in it. He told me to hurry up and let’s get in the car and go.

We got in the car, and his mom came bursting out the front door of his house. She took one look at the car, at me and Sebastian, at Will nervously trying to hurry us along, and she began screaming at Will in Haitian Creole. I looked at Will. 

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Just drive” he said.

“What’s going on… Why is she so mad?”

“Drive!” He looked at me with some desperation.

So I put it in reverse and pulled off. His mom started screaming even louder and even took her shoe off and threw it at my car. It missed.

After we cleared that scene I turned to him.

“The fuck was that?” I asked him.

“It’s nothing,” He responded “I told her I was going for a job interview.”

PT 4:

We went and picked up two more guys. Will’s cousin Hondo and some dude named Tyron down in Boynton. Then we got on 95 south and made our way towards the doctors office. We stopped off in Pompano for some the fake MRIs.

We would stop off near some dodgy looking concrete complex with some dude puffing a black n mild outside looking like he’s posted up, and Sebastian would get out of the car and go greet them. Somehow he knew all these people. The rest of us were in the dark, left waiting, wondering…

Then we’re back on the highway. The closer to Miami you get, the more of a bumper to bumper disaster 95 becomes. Finally we get off at the exit.

I pull into the parking spot in the complex in front of the the doctors office. As we exit the car, a Sherrif’s car passes by and honks the horn.

“The fuck is that?” I ask Sebastian.

“Don’t worry about it.”

We go in the office. After a series of hallways we’re led to a room with blank walls lined with steel chairs. No motivational posters on the walls. No medical charts. Just brim to brim steel chairs with junkies seated on them.

“Wait here,” Sebastian tells us as he enters the office. We look around. We sit down amongst the human filth.

“I can’t wait to get some blues” i hear one of the junkies lamenting to a friend. I look in his eyes. I see the same basic hunger I feel in the arc of my soul.

Eventually I’m called in.

“Ohhh… You guys even got a white boy!”

Yeah, they got me. Any other brilliant observations you cunt?

Once it’s all said and done we’re to go fill out the scripts at a local pharma that plays ball.

The scripts went through smoothly and we got the pills. Or they got the pills, so we got the money.

PT 5:

I was feeling good about myself when I strolled into my place $250 dollars richer

As I entered the room and saw my dad’s face. It was still and lifeless with florescent beams bouncing off it, with a slight expression of discontent.

“Hey dad.”

He turned to me. “Hey, this is crazy.” He pointed at the TV

I went around side him and watched. The TV was showing federal agents raiding a concrete building. Turns out it was a drug bust. Pills. Turns out it was a building 3 blocks down that doctors have been operating out of for years, with patients coming all the way from WV.

It dawns on me then that it’s cause people like that, that my dad’s medicine is limited. People like us, that make the innocent suffer for our vanity.

“That’s terrible..” I exclaim to my father.

“Those scumbags.” He looks up at me pleadingly. “Don’t they know people are suffering?”

Pill mills of South FL

Lessons From Childhood Fights

When I was in 5th grade, there was this kid with glasses who kept fucking with me one day at recess. He would punch me in the arm and then run off.

Finally, I chased him down and cornered him. I punched him once, hard, in the stomach.  He fell to the ground and started rolling around on the wood chips.

In doing so, he managed to press his glasses into his face hard enough to cut the bridge of his nose. I just watched him, puzzled at his over reaction.

Anyway, turns out the kid ran off and told a counselor on me. She called my step dad to the school, and when I was called to the office, he was sitting there with her.

I was afraid of him. He was a violent convicted felon. Had a drunken fight with my dad and beat him until his eye was displaced from the socket.

At the time I used to fantasize that if he gave me the right excuse, like laying his hands on my mom, I would sneak into his room and slash his throat with a butcher knife while he slept. Suffice it to say, he and I had some problems.

Beyond any of that, he was just a physically domineering and verbally abusive drunk and carried himself like he could do no wrong.

“You have no idea what having it bad is really like,” he would tell me.

Turns out his childhood was fucked. He would tell me about his father and the hell he used to reign down on his family.

His old man was a real piece of shit. He used to gather all the kids up, bring them down to the basement and force them to watch him beat their mother.

Once his mom finally left his dad, all the kids went with the mom except his one younger brother, who decided to stay with his dad.

Apparently the dad raped the brother while he was under his care. They found holes in the dry wall where his head had been beating up against the wall as his father and the father’s friend took turns raping him. Eventually he grew up to become a meth addict

In a way I felt bad for my stepdad. In another way I hated and feared him, and didn’t care less what made him the way he was. And now I was in deep shit, and here he was, sitting there. Precisely in the right place, right time to fuck my whole day up.

He would constantly threaten to “beat the pulp out of me” for stepping out of line, though he never severely beat me and only occasionally put this hands on me at all in the heat of the moment.

Nonetheless, I knew what he was capable of. I knew what he was carrying inside him. And I feared him.

Back to the confrontation in the office.

“What happened?” He asked me sternly.

“He hit me… So I hit him back….” I replied.

“You made him bleed!” The counselor interjected. I didn’t recognize her.

“He was rolling around on the ground after I hit him… He did that to himself.” I replied.

“This one…” She pointed at me, “this one is always getting into fights.”

I couldn’t believe it. The cunt was setting me up.

“That’s a lie!” I protested, but my stepdad raised his hand as to silence me.

“I’ve heard enough.” He said.

And with that, we left. For a while, we drove along in excruciating silence.

“Did you kick his ass?” He finally asked.

“No!  He kept hitting me and finally I just  hit him back!” I protested. I knew he didn’t believe me. My eyes started to well up with tears at the injustice.

“Stop.” He interrupted. “Just tell me, did you kick his ass?”

“No…” I still was trying to protest the allegation. “I just…”

“Stop.” He interrupted again. This time he smiled. “I said… Did you KICK HIS ASS???”

Finally catching the hint, I simply said yes.

“Good.” He replied. “Don’t let anyone push you around.”

“That lady was lying about all the fights though… I don’t even know her.” I told him.

“I figured as much.” He responded. “Don’t worry about it.”

I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. I practically felt invincible. The powers that be were on my side.

On the way home, I sat satisfied yet confused, trying to interpret the lesson I learned. So violence is ok as long as I kick their ass?

We rode the rest of the way in silence. We never spoke a word of the incident to my mother.



Lessons From Childhood Fights

I think I joined a cult

So as I mentioned in a few of my previous posts, I have had some problems with substance abuse. Mainly DXM and alcohol. I know most people will shake their head at DXM. It is what it is. I can’t change the facts. In a way it would be way easier to be able to tell people it was crack or something like that because that’s a story they understand. But I knew from a very young age not to touch that stuff. So I didn’t.


In any case, here I am, almost 6 months into my stay at a certain faith based recovery center here in North Carolina. Which brings me to the aforementioned “cult.” It’s probably not an actual cult. That was more of a click bait title. But it’s the closest thing to a cult I’ve ever joined. So I will continue to refer to it as a cult, since I can. As such, the organization in question shall remain nameless. Or better yet, I will refer to it as Cult X. At least until I think of a better substitute.


So Cult X is a Christian based live-in recovery program where you work for them on certain job contracts they have (I am currently working at an animal shelter) in exchange for room and board, food, etc. You are not paid for this work and in fact are not allowed to have money. Any money you do have is to be kept by the staff in an “account” (see: envelope) in your name which you can only use to spend at Walmart on the occasion (once a month) that they take us to Walmart.


Cigarettes are banned. Phones and electronic devices are banned (I’m breaking the rules atm). We are given the ability to make phone calls using their phone twice a month: on the 2nd and 4th Sundays.


Cult X is majority black. We go to a black Pentecostal church (mandatory) for service on Sunday and Bible study (which is more like another service) on Thursday nights. The one exception is if you are working. I happen to work Sundays, so I miss the Sunday services and only go on Thursday nights. Ironically enough, keeping the Sabbath is apparently less important than keeping the contract.


I really under estimated the religious aspect of the program when I decided to come here. My line of thinking was warped both by drugs and living on the street. I thought it would be no big deal to fake the religious parts just to get the sobriety part. I didn’t consider that their insistence would be that the only path to sobriety is through Jesus Christ.


I am dead sure I’m the only non believer in the program. I have taken the opportunity to learn more about the Christan belief system and experience, when possible. Or more precisely when possible and when there was nothing else that was more interesting to do. The first few months I had no phone and the only books I brought were a chess book and a dense (650 pg) history of communism. Both of which were rented by me from the library and not returned. So out of boredom I decided to try reading the Bible all the way through. I made it up to part of the way through Numbers then quit. I also read the book of Job and part of Revelation. I still intend to read more of the Bible but atm I don’t feel like it as I have better/more pressing things to read/learn. I’m trying to brush back up on some of the IT stuff and try to get a decent job when I leave here or at least something entry level in that field so I can start building up work experience that I can actually use to advance myself instead of always working odd jobs in unrelated fields.


Anyway, I’m currently on a WiFi signal that I’m not sure where it’s coming from or how long it will last. I am going to leave it at that for now and try to go watch some YouTube videos or something.

I think I joined a cult

The Homeless Chronicles pt 2

When I woke up this morning they warned us that the cops were everywhere outside. Apparently, in the early morning hours someone had crashed their car into the fire hydrant next to the shelter. It would seem that whoever was in the car had fled through the woods behind the shelter. The cops were canvassing the area still looking for the suspect.

The big guy next to me who failed to heed my advice was predictably kicked out a few nights ago (temporarily, until they figure out whether they want him to come back or not). Just saying.

In other news, there is this guy who always paces around all night, especially when he doesn’t take his medication. Let’s say his name is Jerry. He’s kind of weird and I never knew exactly how to take him. He looks normal from the outside, until you speak to him.  Then you could tell there’s something off about him. Something child like.

He has bright, blue eyes that look somewhat sedated. He always tends to smile when he speaks to you, in a way that looks somewhat sinister and somewhat innocent. So I could never make out whether he was being himself, or just messing with me. But over time it became apparent that he’s sincere. Just mentally screwy. I can’t tell if once upon a time he was normal, and meth scrambled his brain permanently, or if he already had dormant psychological quirks which the meth just brought out in full force.

In any case, his chief characteristic is that when he goes off his meds he stays up all night and paces around. from the bathroom to the other side of the dorm and back again. Yesterday at lunch I asked him why he has to pace so much and he said “because I’m dying.”

“Your dying..?” I repeated.

“If I told you, then you wouldn’t believe me.”

“So what?”

“What do you mean?”

“So what if I don’t believe you, what difference does it make? Just tell me anyway”

So he did.

“My soul was stolen.”

“Your soul?”


“How did that happen?”

“Do you know the difference between white witches and black witches?”

“One is good and the other is evil”

“Right. Well I was a white witch, or a healer.”

“How did you get into that?”

“Get into what?”

“Being a healer… or doing white magic or whatever it is…”

“I was born that way. There’s no such thing as “getting into it.” ”


“Doesn’t work that way.”

“I see. So how is it that you had your soul stolen then?””

“Well like I said, I was born to heal people, but when I got here I fell into darkness.”

“Got where?”

“Here. Earth. When I was born.”

“So how did you fall into darkness?”

“I just fell in love with darkness, and it got my soul.”

“But when did this happen, like was a certain age or turning point -”

“Since I was born.”

“I see.” I said, and we both paused for some time. “So you were born to be this white angel, right, but since birth you fell in love with darkness? Sounds like you got screwed.”

“Well what happened was somebody cast a black magic spell on me, and I drank some poison, and that’s how my soul got stolen.”

“Who cast a spell on you?”

“I started to get involved in drugs, and the cartels, and gangs.”

“Which gangs or cartels?”

“I was involved with every gang in the world.”

“I see.”

“Would you ever kill somebody?” he asks me randomly

“It depends on the context” I answered, intentionally ambiguous.

“I was hanging around murderers. Bad people. I was dealing and doing meth.”

“And that’s when they stole your soul?”

“They cast a black magic spell. And my soul belonged to the devil.”

I was starting to get a hang of his delusional and paranoid sense of his own place in the world, and was futilely trying to see if I could find some entry point in which I could inject some more positive sentiment into his madness, knowing that trying to destroy the madness itself would be an even more futile effort.

“Can’t you plead your case when you get to the pearly gates?”


“Like when you die, say: “Jesus, please have mercy on me for having my soul stolen by the devil. I didn’t mean for that to happen and I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t work that way.”  He replied flatly. “Once the devil has your soul that’s it. You go straight to hell.”

While we were in the course of having this conversation, of course, he was pacing the entire time, and in order to continue the discussion, so was I. So I was still trying to extract more information from him when one of the staff, an older short haired lady whose face to me resembles a bird of prey, came into the hall we were pacing in and stated “Only Jerry is allowed to pace in the hallways.” And with that, I was on my way. He wished me “good luck” with my life. I wished the same back and he just shook his head at my silly mistake. Failing to remember that he was already damned to hell with nothing to be done about it. It of course did occur to me that none of this actually explained why he paced around so much, which was in fact the initial question.

Later, upon returning to the dorms at night, I found out that a good friend and someone that I had coincidentally known since childhood who was also staying at the shelter had been arrested at the local Family Dollar for shoplifting. He and his GF, both staying at the shelter, have 3 kids (currently being raised by the grandparents). They’re in their mid 20s. Drugs got them both fucked up. They were also coincidentally in the detox clinic with me as well. I had been internally skeptical about their sobriety, since they told me they were coming off hard drugs like crack and heroin. Turns out I was right to be cynical. I wish I wasn’t.




The Homeless Chronicles pt 2

The Homeless Chronicles PT 1

161 beds are allocated to the men’s dorm at a local homeless shelter.  This includes 160 twin sized bed, and 1 double. What to do with the bigger bed?


Keep in mind, the shelter already has separate dorms for families that stay together, and all of those dorms already have family sized beds.


The obvious thought would be that occasionally you get someone who is morbidly obese or otherwise just massive enough to render the twin sized bed a rather limited platform on which to sleep.


So I was expecting, as I sat on my own bed (two beds away from the big bed) and read my books that eventually they were going to come in with some new guy who was big enough to get the big bed. They came in with quite a few big guys, but one by one they were led past the big bed and to their normal sized  twin bed.


One of those big guys was given the bed right next to mine. He had just gotten out of prison. He’s not really obese but portly, tall and big and tough looking. He said they had told him he would get that big bed, but so-and-so who is in charge doesn’t like him and doesn’t want him there, so they gave him a regular bed instead.


He looked to me as if expecting a response. I shrugged and suggested that he not dwell on it, that this sort of thing would happen often, and he’d be better off just to rise above the drama. This advice bounced off him like a force-field had surrounded his brain, deflecting any subversive efforts to undermine his campaign of righteous indignation.

“Can you believe that though? What would make them-“ He continued, unperturbed. I returned to my book


The righteous indignation of the homeless is perhaps their most surprising trait. I have been staying at this shelter for a month or so, and have taken this opportunity to observe the homeless up close. I have been homeless before, for brief periods of time, but it was always a solitary ordeal. This is the first shelter I have been at, and it provided me a unique opportunity to observe homeless society from the ground up, and more specifically to observe the social dynamic which exists at this shelter.


The social dynamic reminds me of two places I have been: high school and jail. That is, you have two distinct castes of people: Teachers/guards and students/inmates. One is subservient to the other, though usually resentfully so, and will advertise his rebellious ambitions to his cohorts at every given opportunity. Thus the path for assimilation into the social club is simple: embrace the solidarity that comes with fighting against a common enemy.


The ‘guards’ in this case are the handful of workers who run the shelter. The ironic thing about these guards is that they are former residents of the shelter themselves. So the some of the homeless eventually graduate to running other homeless. Their compensation is minimal. From what I’ve heard, they get 25 bucks every 2 weeks.


Nonetheless they take their jobs seriously, and take every opportunity to make their authority known. From this, you get the resentment of the masses over being told what to do, and the simultaneous resentment of the authority that is being questioned, for the fact that its being questioned.


This brings us back to the previous question of bed allocation. Before long, a skinny, short black guy was led to the double sized bed. This drew the immediate attention of every big guy in the dorm.

“Seeing that scrawny nigga in that big ass bed just kills me..” I later heard one of them lamenting.


I puzzled for a while over the logic which went into this decision. I’m still unsure as to exactly what the answer is. A few possible explanations immediately spring to mind.

1.) Maybe the decision was entirely arbitrary, and the staff actually pays no attention to who gets what bed?

2.) Maybe they intentionally gave the bed to the little guy, to sadistically taunt everyone else and provoke more of the bitter feelings that the staff and residents regularly display for one another?

3.) Or maybe, somehow, it was the right move. Maybe they had observed from experience that when you make the size of the resident a determining factor in who gets the big bed, this leads to bickering over which big guy gets the bed (since there are numerous big guys but only one big bed).


The more I think about it, the more the option # 2 seems the most likely. In a homeless shelter, where every body is constantly sizing up what everyone else gets, it seems exceedingly unlikely that the staff would be incognizant of the implications of giving one guy a bigger bed than everyone else.


Similarly, the longer I stay here the more it seems that everyone involved (both staff and residents) thrive on the daily drama more than they dislike it. It gives the staff the opportunity to flaunt their authority, and it gives the residents something to bitch about, which inevitably becomes a seemingly endless topic of conversation.


So given the above, I can only assume that a seemingly provocative action is in fact designed to be provocative.







The Homeless Chronicles PT 1

Shots fired

Another mass shooting…. what a surprise.  It happened not far from where I’m from… yet I’ve never heard of the town. What another surprise. These things always seem to happen in some unheard-of suburban community for some reason.


I don’t really know what the answer is. But I feel like responding to a few of the more commonly repeated utterances that emerge every single time this kind of shit happens.


1.) “Just ban guns already m8.” 

We can’t “just ban guns,” bruv. We have this thing called the bill of rights, fam. That shit has been around since we first kicked you limey fucks off this continent. So here’s the basic problem… In America, unlike in places like England or Europe, we have these weird things called “rights” like freedom of speech or the freedom to pack heat. We would have to change or remove the 2nd amendment in order to ban guns. That is an unprecedented move. It’s not just irrational cowboy posturing that makes it hard… we’ve literally never removed a right from the bill of rights. It’s not the same as overturning prohibition, which happened within like a decade of that amendment even being created. It’s not even the same as freeing the slaves with the 14th amendment, since 1) slavery wasn’t ever really a universally accepted practice in the first place and 2) it was never explicitly protected by the constitution, it just hadn’t been explicitly prohibited either. Until the 14th amendment. Overturning the 2nd amendment, whatever your thoughts on it, would be a fundamentally radical shift away from the founding document of this Country. And that is why it will REALLY be hard (see: impossible) to do. NRA or not. If it were possible to do I would bet my life on this point.


2) “Just ban assault weapons then.”

That’s where the NRA types come into play. Still unlikely, though yes this is possible. Wouldn’t be much more than a symbolic gesture, though, IMO. Yes these Rambo-wannabes that shoot places up love AR-15’s. But it’s not like not having their gun of choice is really going to deter them from killing, and there’s no sure way of saying it would even necessarily make the killings less deadly in many cases. A lot of these guys also wear bullet proof vests when they are shooting up a crowd of unarmed civilians, and then blow their own brains out before the cops get there. Not exactly the most logical bunch. A lot of people also seem to forget the high score for body count was held by the VA tech shooter for a quite a while, who killed nearly twice as many people as the recent FL shooter, and he only used hand guns. The case where I would say having the rifle did provide a really distinct advantage would be the guy who shot up the music concert from that hotel. But either way… I don’t really care if they ban AR’s or not. I just think people are so desperate for an easy fix that they overestimate what a difference this would pragmatically make.

IMO gun control is effective, if and only if you ban all guns and are able to effectively enforce that rule. Which is kind of a big IF, to be frank, even ignoring the 2nd amendment issue. There’s not a single country in the world that was as heavily armed, populated and connected as the United States and still managed to effectively disarm their population. Everyone loves to bring up the shining example of Britain, a small island, and Australia, a sparsely populated island, neither of which were ever nearly as heavily armed as the United States currently is. If you want an example of a place that has very strict gun laws yet no ability to prevent the influx of guns, latin America is stock full of examples.


3) “The real problem is mental health.”

Errr…  obviously that’s a factor, but here’s what comes to my mind when people argue about whether this whole thing is down to a gun issue or a mental health issue. Both of these things have existed since the dawn of this country. Yet this style of mass shooting is a relatively recent phenomenon, and only seems to be growing more common the more we obsess over it. I feel like there is more of a correlation between the rise of mass media and mass shootings (of this type) than either a rise in mental health issues or an increase in the numbers of guns (or the efficacy of the guns available, for that matter). Keep in mind we already had a “St. Valentines Day massacre” in the fuckin 20’s using Tommy guns. Sure an AR is better. But those guys were also shooting at other gangsters and not helpless schoolchildren.


A random “Along the watchtower” type massacre has been possible for at least 100 years. And there were plenty of lunatics around to carry it out (I really doubt anyone honestly thinks mental health care was better back then). It just wasn’t that common. So there must be another variable at play here, which plays the decisive role in the creation of this modern fad. And I know this is hardly a unique thing to point out, but I am still going to say it again. Why the fuck do we even know this little spastic fuck’s name? Why do we know about his poor dead mom, or any of that other bullshit? And why don’t we allow the cops to just put a bullet in him as soon as they arrive on the scene and claim he reached for his weapon. If ever there was a time for police brutality, it’s for autistic little murderous fucks like this.


4)”x thousand gun deaths a year in the U.S.”

Vast majority of which are committed either by gangs or in a domestic setting. Vast majority of which, we never even hear about on an individual basis. So stop pimping that stat every time a nice juicy mass shooting hits the headlines, you disingenuous twats.

Shots fired

Hate being sober

Just got out of rehab. Or not quite rehab… more like detox. Week long program. Long time coming. I kept just assuming that I would hit rock bottom eventually and it would force me to stop drinking and taking pills.  I never seem to know where that bottom is. I always think I’ve found it, then I find out there’s further down to go. I don’t think the rabbit hole ends. I keep waiting for the universe to save me. To set me on the right path. Shit just keeps rolling down hill. There is no end in sight.


I thought I hit bottom like 2 weeks ago when I was thrown out of the homeless shelter for the night for blowing twice the legal limit, and spent the night alternating between booze and DXM capsules, unable to decide whether to try to pass out on some bench outside or ride the night out hopped up on pills in the local Walmart, the only establishment in this town (other than a few gas stations) which stays open 24 hours. My indecisiveness reigned hell upon my stomach.


The walk from Walmart back to the shelter was a couple miles, so I made sure to drop another 600 mg before making that journey. I went on autopilot. I felt like I wasn’t even the one walking. Like I was a robot being guided by remote control. I didn’t even feel the cold. It was freezing rain/sleeting outside.


Eventually my senses were so out of whack that I started getting paranoid about death. I felt like I could feel it closing in on me. Then my mind really started to go and I got lost for a few hours. When I got downtown it took me about 30 mins to decide which way was North and which way was South, on a street that I walk every day. I would walk a few miles north, say to my self “this isn’t right,” then walk a few blocks south, and feel that wasn’t right either. I needed to go south and I knew that. Eventually I figured it out.


When I was walking south and getting close to the shelter again, I remembered I still had a fifth of SoCo in my jacket. I started to think, maybe if I drink it now, I can sleep under the pavilion. But then I said to myself, “that’s the devil talking.” And I ditched the bottle in the yard of an abandoned house before I reached the shelter, determined never to touch another drop again.


Before the day was over, I walked back to that house and retrieved the bottle. “I’ll need this to sleep,” was my rationalization. Then the next day I just repeated the pattern. Rock bottom my ass. Either I will do what I need to do or I won’t.


After a little less than a week more of doing the wrong thing, the pointlessness of it all really got to me. I don’t even enjoy the drinking, or the cough meds, at this point. It’s just a daily routine. So i checked myself into a detox clinic.


Nearly everyone there had worse addictions than I did. They did crack, meth, heroin, Oxy. I always avoided the big 3 (crack/meth/heroin) because I knew they would ruin me. Those were the “bad” drugs.


Growing up, most of my neighbors were on crack. Or they sold it. I saw what it did. I knew better than to try it.


I did try cocaine, but only once. I knew instantly it would have me hooked too if I let it become any sort of habit.


Oxy, I tried. In fact I did it for like a month straight after my dad died, since he had a huge stash that was prescribed to him for his cancer. But after it ran out, I never missed it or sought it out. Just got lucky with that one, I guess.


Anyway, after listening for hour after hour about how these people would get their 500-600 check and the next day it would be gone, it drilled it into me that my habit really ain’t shit at all. The rabbit hole goes deeper than I care to find out.


Yet I still feel like getting fucked up. Being sober is just…. boring.


But so far (this is my first day out free) I am still determined to give it a rest. My life is a mess. I totaled my car after drinking with some coworkers after work a few months back. It was 2:30am, so I slept in the car then called it in in the morning, to avoid a DUI. Since then I’ve been struggling to hold down any job cause of transportation. But even when I DID have a car, I haven’t had a valid licence for at least 2 years. So I just kept racking up tickets the whole time. I owe so much money to the state before I can even drive. I owe thousands to different credit cards, loans, etc. And nothing to show for it. I’ve burned almost every bridge I’ve ever crossed. I just use people until they get sick of it. Then I look for a new exploit.


I feel like stealing too. I told myself once I was sober that would end. Right now I want a monster energy drink. I have 6 cigarettes left. I have $2.47 cents in my bank account. I am at the public library, and I am supposed to be filing my taxes right now. Or applying for jobs. Instead I’m typing all the shit I should be saying at an AA meeting.


Except when I go to those meetings, I don’t say much of anything. I don’t listen well either. Some guy will be up there pouring out his heart, giving his life story, and I’m just sitting there zoning out, thinking about some YouTube video I watched earlier.


Plus all the “Give yourself to God” shit just doesn’t speak to me. It’s not even that I don’t believe in God. I believe in him in a paranoid sort of way, whenever I’m fucking up. I feel like he’s the one sitting up there on his throne throwing down lightning bolts of karmic justice to fuck up my day. Or to teach me a lesson. Or just cause he thinks it’s funny. But either way…. God, grant me the serenity not to steal a monster energy drink on the way home. And to get my taxes filed tomorrow. And to find a job ASAP.


This shit has to change.

Hate being sober

Poor people suck at life

And I’m one of them.

I’m just frankly tired of hearing excuses for these people. I’m tired of people kissing the asses of the working class. I’m tired of class guilt leading successful people who started out poor to drone on about how they’re still in touch with their “working class roots.” I’m tired of privileged academics and Marxists who are completely out touch with commoners use terms like “bourgeoisie” to malign any sort of financial success in life. But more than anything else, I’m just tired of hearing about how its primarily the system, and not individual choice, which is keeping people in poverty.

Let’s get a few things straight: I’m speaking about the lower classes in western, industrialized countries. I do think it’s true that most 3rd world peasants don’t have much of a chance at a much better life than they live. But in the Unites States and Europe, that’s simply not the case.

I also acknowledge that being poor makes it harder to climb the social ladder. Or, in other words, it’s probably harder to take $100 and turn it into $1,000 than it is to take $1,000 and turn it into $10,000. Especially considering that you probably need most, if not all of the $100 just to sustain your existence.

That being said, it’s far from impossible to improve your lot in life. Even if you are lower class. In fact, it’s far easier to do so now than virtually any other time in history. What’s more: in the west, you live in a society where this prospect is inconceivably more achievable than it is for the vast majority of humans living on this planet.

Similarly, the level of material wealth enjoyed by your average minimum-wage-slave in the west is higher than the vast majority of the human population on Earth right now, and higher than the vast vast majority of humans that have ever lived. Your K Mart cashier living in 2017 lives, in many ways, a better life than the kings and royalty of the not so distant past. And yet, we still shake our fists at the “1%” for not sharing their immense hedge fund profits with us.

So the level of perceived wealth is relative to the spectrum of wealth that we encounter in other people. If it were just down to material needs, modern western humans would have very little reason to be dissatisfied. We evolved to live with much less than we currently have. It’s only when people look at the immense disparity in wealth between themselves and the financial elite, that the perception that they are somehow being exploited or gypped starts to manifest.

So the problem isn’t not enough money. The problem is our competitive nature can’t help but compel us to compare our own state to that of the most successful individuals in the system, and then to inevitably resent the disparity we find there. Perhaps we should focus more on not getting sucked in to a competition that in reality has very few winners, and instead ask ourselves pragmatically how much wealth we really need to live a reasonable life and then actively work towards turning that ambition into a reality. Easier said than done. But it’s a start.

As for why the poor remain poor, there are always going to be a number of different possible answers. But in general:
We squander our money on bullshit.
We make bad decisions, financially.
We have kids early on. In some cases, we do so intentionally.
We indulge in materialistic displays of status by buying overpriced fashion accessories and clothes.
We very often smoke cigarettes, and indulge in alcohol and drug abuse.
We buy scratch off tickets and lotto tickets.
We take credit cards or loans, knowing that we shouldn’t do so, and then use them as extra money, artificially expanding our budget with no plan of how to pay it off.

Of course, this is all anecdotal. Yet in my experience happens to be true. Poor people are on average less intelligent, less psychologically stable, less conscientious and just less scrupulous in general. Our morality is often warped and full of inconsistencies, and we’re just much less likely to take certain things seriously in general.

I’m tired of hearing about how much more noble and honest poor people supposedly are. It’s all nonsense. We’re liars, cheats, drunks, unwed mothers, etc. And anyone can end up here. But to stay here you have to keep fucking up consistently. And that, quite frankly, is what we’re best at.

Poor people suck at life

The Time I Almost Got Touched Funny As A Kid


The following story contains some potentially disturbing or erotic material. The following story is 100% true to the best of my recollection. No details have been purposely omitted or altered in any way. This is a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT about the dangers lurking behind every corner waiting to sexually violate the young and the vulnerable. Kids: listen to your parents when they tell you not to go off with strangers, or you could be the next victim of a sex crime (or even worse)!


When I was about 11 years old, I had a close call with a certified pedophile. Every year, my cousin’s family would come down and stay in some hotel about an hour north of where we lived in Florida, and we would also get a room there and visit with them for the weekend. The hotel was on the beach and had a pool as well as a small game room, so it was usually a good time.

This time around, we got to the hotel a day before my cousin’s family, and so I ended up making friends with some girl my age who was also staying at the hotel. Then when my cousin (who was a year younger than me) got down there, she had also brought her friend from New Jersey with her who was also our age.

So the four of us would spend a lot of time hanging out at the game room at the bottom of the hotel. Occasionally we would see this old guy outside the game room who seemed friendly enough and not at all creepy or abnormal. He just seemed like someone’s parent or grandparent, and occasionally on the way into the game room we would have some sort of joking interaction with him. We thought nothing of it at the time.

Then, one time I ran into him in another part of the hotel when I was by myself. I said hello and we had a brief interaction, then he was like “Hey, how’d you like to go up on the roof of this place? I know how to get up there.”

It was like a 5 story building and I was from South Florida and so going on the roof of a semi tall building sounded interesting to me. Against my better judgement, I agreed and so we went up the stairwell which lead to the roof. When we got to the top of the stairwell, there was a door leading to the roof but it was locked. The old man pretended to “look for the key” to the door.

Of course he didn’t find it. So then he sat down against the wall and was like “boy, you have some big feet. Let me see how big they are. Come sit over here and put your foot on my stomach.”

At this point I was pretty creeped out but I wasn’t sure what to do so I just complied and put my foot on his stomach, hoping that he was just an old weirdo and not a kid-toucher. When I put my foot on his stomach, he was like “go lower.”
I went a bit lower but still on his stomach.
“…lower.” He said.
It was painfully obvious he want me to put my foot on his dick, so finally I was like “nah…I don’t want to do that.”

At this point, he got up in and hurry and said somewhat frantically: “What is it? Money? You want money? Let me go get you 30 dollars. 40 dollars! I’ll be right back.”

He ran down the stairwell and out one of the doors. As soon as he was gone I left as well and went back to my hotel room. I didn’t tell my dad or any authorities. I was too embarrassed about it for whatever reason. I did tell my cousin and the other girls we were with, just to warn them.


I don’t know if he intended on actually coming back with money or if he just panicked and left. It could be that he had intended on abducting me and just chickened out, but something tells me that wasn’t the case.

He brought me up to the stairwell; which was an isolated location but not at all a good place to kidnap me and leave inconspicuously. So that leaves me to believe he just wanted to fool around with me right there in the stairwell and then we each go our separate ways. I could be wrong, but that’s just what my gut tells me.

So then remains the question of whether he intended to rape me and chickened out, or whether he only wanted to do it with me going along with it (aka no resistance). I once again lean towards the latter scenario, as he had me in about as isolated a location as you could imagine and still ended up running off when I showed the slightest sign of resistance or reluctance.

He was much bigger than me, and could’ve easily forced himself on me and then left, but he didn’t. Instead he tried to inadvertently bait me into some creepy man-boy sex with the promise of a trip to the roof and then the weird foot game he tried to play. Maybe he had a foot fetish? Or maybe that was just the only way he could think of broaching the subject of me touching his old man dick.

What the fuck was the old man thinking? I mean his pedophile game was great up until you get to the creepy man-boy sex part. By this I mean.. he did a good job at disarming me and making me not view him as a threat. But then he had no next move.

OK, he’s up here in this stairwell with me, expecting to go to the roof. Oh, sorry sonny I can’t seem to find the key. Say, how’d you like to put you foot on an old man’s dick instead? I know I promised you the roof but I can’t find the damn key. What are you gonna do? Might as well put your foot on my dick while you’re up here though, amirite?

I wonder how many kids just took the bait and fondled his old man parts right there in the dirty stairwell of a Holiday Inn? The moral of the story is to watch out for strangers, particularly if they ask you to go somewhere with them. Ignore this lesson at your own peril; some people just need to learn things the hard way.

The Time I Almost Got Touched Funny As A Kid