So, M. the dealer next door calls me tonight.
Seeing the unknown number pop up on my phone, I answered quick – maybe it's a guy I gave my number to via myspace a week ago. Lame, yes, but it's my life.
Do I have to explain that it's M. calling me baby and sweetheart on the other line? Telling me the chick he was staying with, my next door neighboor, is a "crazy bitch" who threw a glass cup at his eye, busting his eyelid open.
She kicked him out.
"Don't worry baby, I still live close by"
Ahaha, I wont, I think to myself. Even if I wanted something from M., I don't think I could face him after the conversation we had two nights ago. I was drunkenly baiting him, pushing the limits of what I knew he wanted and what I knew I wouldn't do. I do alot of fucked up things when I'm fucked up.
He tells me he has to get some things ready "It's Saturday night, you know what that means" and I laugh. Yeah.
He tells me to meet him down at the bar.
I say, "maybe"
and that's that.
The way my days have been, I can't be sure of anything.
Ever since my coke/booze binge I haven't been able to face myself in the mirror. Suicide is pounding at my conscious mind and the only thing I know to do is drown it out – booze or seroquil, sleep sleep sleep.
Last night I go out to the bar, throw some clothes on after another sleep marathon. Six dollar drafts, pick up six pack, junk food at the Cogos down the street. I can't finish my tall boy, but I'm eating like a pig – a side effect of seroquil is weight gain, which explains my ravenous hunger. I've gone from 25mgs to upwards of 100mgs with a healthy side of alcohol. I'm fucking hungry.
Last night I get called upstairs to talk with my other room mate. He tells me he is going to kick my sister out. Apparently her foray into pornography and the way she's blown 500 dollars on booze and drugs in a couple nights isn't impressing him. He tells me I can stay, because I have my job.
I neglected, of course, to tell him I walked out on it.
Why'd he lay this shit on me?
I haven't spoke to my parents in a while. Avoiding the inevitable – I'm coming home after a long four years to sleep and get wasted in your basement.
Eh. I missed that psychiatric appointment too, due to my seroquel slumber.
Still have 700 mgs left. I got some money in the mail today and will probably hit the bar after I eat, then take a generous amount of this shit to help me sleep away.
And I wont be going by M.'s bar. I'm not a fiend, nor am I desperate.