kateeviscerate











I ride the same bus to the methadone clinic a few times a week. At first I thought the driver was sorta cute (god I’m a sucker for boys with glasses). I tried a few polite hellos, they were met with blank stares/borderline glares. No biggie. Considering how annoying riding the bus can be, I can’t imagine driving one forty hours a week. One day advertising reps for a new energy drink were handing out free samples. I grabbed an extra one and offered it to bus driver man (It was sealed, packaged etc and I explained where I got it so as not to appear crazy.) His response was to ogle me in horror as if I were offering him a dead puppy. Again, oh well, I tried whatever more energy for me!

This brings us to today. As per my obsession with recovery books I enter the bus clutching a book entitled “Party Girl”. (Fiction but excellent. Plus Jerry Stahl, the author of “Permanent Midnight” dug it…so you don’t have to take my word for it!) Out of nowhere busdriver man points to my book cover and says, I kid you not, “I bet YOU’RE a real party girl he he. Reading up on it to get some tips?” Seriously? This is really the first thing he’s gonna say to me? It took all my strength not to respond “Nope, not me! Just on my way to the good old methadone clinic!” I mumbled something vaguely acquiescent and walked WAAAAY to the back to sit down. Then I spent my bus ride wondering what exactly a party girl is, and how on earth I look like one.



Still picking gravel out of my left arm from my bike bailout on the way home from work.  Little background: A few weeks ago I went on the worst vacation of my life. Things at Castle Chaos had been getting way out of hand, chemicals were flying left and right.  Shooting gallery would have been too gentle a term for my house.  So I tagged along to the Big Easy with two of my old friends.  Easy for them- to score rock.  After listening  me wailing on the phone every second I could get away from the gruesome twosome my roommates resolved to make life here a little easier for me.  I know, I know it’s my choice to live here.  It’s not like the lure of the spike escapes my notice.  And I know I wouldn’t make it in a house full of normies or twelve step zombies.  But still.  It’s hard to be the house mom.  The bill payer, caretaker, rent collector, nine to fiver.  So Dopeman and his skank sprung for a used bike for me.  Nothing too fancy but it’s fast.  I’ve ridden it to the methadone clinic and work the past three days and shaved at least an hour off my trip.  I don’t need to tell you that when you work six days a week, an extra hour of sleep can be a godsend!  Which brings us, gentle reader, to the present.  I limp home, tears and mascara running in rivulets down my face, bleeding through ripped fishnets, and tell Dopeman the tragic tale of my brutal bike bailout.  At which point he informs me that he and Skank have decided to hang onto the bike.  It’s nicer than his, and I did just fine with the bus, didn’t I?   Aaaaaargh.   I keep trying to stay calm by reminding myself that constant heroin use precludes activities like bike riding and therefore the odds of them actually using my new darling bike are slim to none.  But geez can’t a girl catch a break here?



et cetera