The
Chronic-Ills of a common dimestore whore and addict.
I had a root canal today. Woke up and
tooth was fucking rotting out of my head. Too much drinking and
drugging and hell I dunno, I think of Shane McGowan of the Pogue’s
teeth. Sometimes for no apparent reason at all I get the strong
urge to send a mail bomb to Barbara Streisand…but I don’t have the
attention span to make explosives when my tooth is throbbing and a big
pulpy mess lies under the temporary filling.
And things have been great lately, really great. I’m
gonna quit smoking pot soon, next week probably. But I just got a free
bottle of viccodin, and man, you can’t turn down free drugs. Its just
not very nice. And I learn how to be a nicer person, I’m learning
how to be a nicer person from the men I let in over and over. No
particular reason. I don’t need them here, I don’t even like most of
them. But the loneliness kicks in, then you’re high and have a drink or
two and they call you up and ask if they can come over to watch a movie
and you say…yes yes yes.
At first, like the first couple of times they
come over, they bring some cheap wine, maybe a movie, condoms and
lube. They throw them down when they come in along with their
keys as if to tell me the future with these makeshift runes on my
coffee table. After a time or two, of me letting them over and
in. The no longer bring wine, they drink my beer, and they forget
condoms. I’ve heard the phrase “where do you want it” during sex
more than I’ve ever heard “I love you”. But I don’t even LIKE them, so
that brings no tears to my eyes. And the dentist didn’t give me enough
pain killers I need more painkillers I need more painkillers cause
something still hurts but I can’t find it on any map. So, I go
the emergency room, I can fake a kidney stone or toothache like a
Julliard graduate doing fucking “Whose afraid of Virginia
Wolff?”. Maybe cause I’ve had both, but most likely because when
you are jonseing for some opiates, you would almost run over your own
leg in your car if you could just to get them. But the first ER
only gave me 20. They are supposed to last me a couple of weeks. They
lasted me 3 days. I’m bloated and my eyes are sunken into my head
like rotting raisins on a snowman that everyone forgot they even
built. So, I go to the ER the next city over. This is very
easily done. All you really need is an address. You can get
one out of the phone book in that area code, or my favorite way, is to
steal some mail and get it that way. There’s just something goddamn
liberating about breaking a federal law in order to get opiates.
Cause I need the opiates to write. I can’t write without them
anymore. And writing is about the only thing I can do these day
that doesn’t leave me with come in my hair and a bounced check from
ordering a Pizza I somehow justified when I was high.
In the Los Angeles area in which I live there are 4
Emergency rooms within a 50 mile radius. That’s like a five minute
drive when you’ve been up all night drinking caffeine and convincing
yourself you’re the next Kerouac but hey, never mind the stomach pains
that bend me over. Everything and everyone wants to bend me
over. But I’m drinking the good stuff these days….Ciroc vodka
made with grapes. You’re drunk before you even realized you
AREN’T drinking just cranberry juice for that yeast infection for all
that fucking you did last week.
I said goddamn.
Debbie TNT Kirk
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Ratz
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Debbie's new book ---> I Hit Like a Girl
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