I turned to stare at Toots, who I didn't even recognize. He was a man at this moment, having changed in my absent year Kristelle had wanted back. But I'd changed too, just not in the way she'd wanted. I was fucking trapped in a flow of hurtful time. I had just been fucking lucky Wink had never let me sink with the rough trade. I’d just get off as many times and in as many ways as I could prior to my fucking collapse in the heap of waste. Ah, life on the fucking streets. At one time they’d been my friends.
“What do I say to Kevin?”
He placed his hand on my shoulder, his touch like an electric pinch. Could I have felt something shocking through my dead, depleted skin?
“Tell him the truth.”
I turned around savagely, sending Toots a step backward.
“That I'm as empty as envy?”
Toots just stared. I could see my reflection in his eyes.
An enigma, a van Gogh, a Sylvia Plath, a Jimi Hendrix, a potential suicide or drug overdose rolling in on a gurney under the glint of red and blue from the ER sign, the pen light fading in and out as my eyes nodded, pupils vanishing into obscurity, the darkness, the absence of light and blackness on a continuum of black.
What shows on the face of every junkie is carved like slate because he’s searching for a scene worth reliving. He can’t walk wherever he chooses without asking permission from the next blast or the man he cops it from. And that something snaps a revelation. Even if he wants to leave, he has only one place to go.
Eric Peterson, Fucking Journal I don’t want to fucking write!
"A raw and raucous tale of a Grunge Rocker from someone who lived the life." Monte A. Melnick, Ramones tour manager and author of "On The Road with the Ramones."