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?


I’m a twenty-nine year old recovered-ish heroin addict in the midwest.  I live with three tweekers,  five junkies and myself whatever i may be.  I’m also the only person in the house with a real job.  It may pay minimum wage and involve slinging pornography to men who ate paste in kindergarden and, actually, may still; but no one has complained about my giant dread mohawk and  I actually get paid to debate the viability of George Romero’s theory of zombie evolution as depicted in the film Dawn of the Dead (the original of course). Since I’ve been regaling friends and c0workers with the grotesque, pathetic, unreal, larger than life, cautionary and hilarious tales of life in my house for years, I though maybe I’d have a go at a blog.  I’m not gonna lie, I’m terrified that this will be a colossal failure.  My lonely little words will languish in some dusty dead end, wasting away unread.  If a word falls in the internet and no one reads it does it still matter?  Well fuck it.  I’m going for it.  I’ve lived much of my adult life in hiding (Hello? Almost thirty? Junkie? Minimum wage video store clerk?) So here goes.  My name’s Kate.  This is my life.  I’d love it if you’d join me as I commit literary seppuku ( get it?kate eviscerate?) and spill my guts for all ( or at least someone I hope) to read.

et cetera