The End of The Story...

Well, a lot happened in that story and most of it is
either too boring or too obscene to write about. Suf-
fice it to say that I have learned a lot about junkies
in the past month or two. I believe I have earned an
honorary Phd. I used to worry sometimes, you know, on
account of the little painkiller dudads I have to take
from time to time for my migraines and such, that per-
haps I myself was a junkie. A scrip junkie I think
they call it.

But nah...

I feel totally better about myself now. Because I've
been spending some time hanging out with some real junk-
ies. Stupidly, I've even tried to help two or three
get clean - While they cleaned me out.

So helpfully, I've developed some criteria whereby the
weary traveler can measure himself and come to some con-
clusion about his or her status.
9475096

A Junkie Has no Soul
She sold it, along with a blow job,
for two dilaudids and a nickel bag.

And She would kick you in the head right
now for the chance to do it again.

A Junkie can pretend to care about you while
he's robbing you blind.

A junkie can rape you in your sleep and con-
vince himself that it was just because he
"loved you so much."

A Junkie can take the pain pills from cancer
patients and not even think twice.

A Junkie is always selfish.

And already very small.



And to borrow a line from a songwriter friend of
mine in Austin, sorry Dave, but your last name
escapes me at the moment, I'll post it later when
I retrieve it:

"I see my life in the bottom of a spoon..."
very small