American Meth, A depressing tale told by Mr. Zedd
by, 17-Apr-2014 at 04:07 (495 Views)
Another wonderful day at work. Nothing helps the ol' self esteem quite like a raging mother of twelve, flapping her fat encrusted arms and screeching to the heavens because she doesn't think that she got enough cheese on the pizzas she ordered in a last ditch effort to shut up her squealing litter of retarded piglets. Some days I really feel like walking into work with a .44 caliber resignation, other days I just drink. So far the bourbon is winning.
The drive home helps to sooth what's left of my shattered sanity. A cup of tea and a visit from Mary-Jane, that's what I need right now. That and my cracked out roomies moving out, but that's another story.
As I pull into the apartment block, my cutlass starts making that grinding noise again. Great. Another problem that I can't afford to fix right now. I park and rest my head on the steering wheel. Eyes closed, just listening to the slow ticking of the engine as it cools down. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each one slowly fades into oblivion. Just like my life. A slow winding down into nothingness.
Walking up to the door I can hear shouting and things crashing around. More good news. Greg and Tori are home. When they moved in with me a year ago things were great. Three steady paychecks, we all got along, and the Saturday night parties were off the hook. Then the two of them discovered meth. Yuppies to druggies in record time. Now I had to pay all the bills, and they were up for days on end fighting and partying. Oh the paid a few hundred bucks here and there, and I never asked where the money came from, but most of what they hustled went to meth and cheap vodka.
Well, I made it home, now for a touch of bourbon and a bit of rest before I made some tea and packed a bowl. Two fingers and three cubes, the perfect glass of Wild Turkey. Or it would be if I could find the damn bottle. I had just restocked that morning before I had to go to hell, i.e. work. Bills had been gentle this month, so I had picked up two bottles. Both were strangely absent. A little guess work and I found them, both dry as a bone in the rubbish bin. Small wonder the two skanky crack-whores were at each others throats. That much alcohol would have had me becoming one with the linoleum, those two? I guess that if you shoot enough meth you can stay awake through anything. At least I still had my tea. Tea pot. Check. Tea. Check. Mug. Check. Kettle... MIA. I had to think for a moment. Where had I left it? Oh yeah, ON THE DAMN STOVE. Then it hit me, on my search for the liquor I had seen the kettle. You know that you've really gone down the rabbit hole when a tea kettle in the cooler doesn't raise any flags. Thick sloshing sounds as I pick up my poor abused kettle. It would seem that 'Sid and Nancy' had discovered a new and unique way to cook clam chowder. Now I know why people randomly shoot-up department stores.
Even the weed didn't sound very appealing any more. Things had been slowly sliding for so long now. The yelling had subsided, but I knew that it had nothing to do with sleep or sex. The two love-birds were most likely taking a break to shoot up again. Heh, shoot up, that gives me an idea.
I walk down the hall with a gift of sorts for my two favourite people in the world. I slowly open the door. both of them have their backs turned, hunching over a glass topped table in the middle of the room, two cups with what looks like the rest of the bourbon pushed to one side. "Hey Greg!" two loud pops.
I go back to my own room. That was kinda fun. not very cathartic though. I have a seat on the end of my bed. The still smoking barrel feels oddly cool on my lips and tongue. 3...2....