nobody's told me to stick to these guns
holy holy
When I was in college I lived in the Heroin house. The entire campus knew this, except me, until mid-semester, and let me tell you it was a big fucking surprise. "you call my house what??" Okay okay I wasn't blind to the slight hand of my clumsy junkie, covering syringes and falling asleep to Sonic Youth and MTV, the christmas lights on strobe and "oh let me put that on my dad's credit card and you give me cash", I just didn't think the whole campus knew. My room mate got wise after a while and put a sign on our bathroom door, it read. NO PUKING BY NON RESIDENTS. It was meant for the guests who came to see A and O downstairs, and after shooting up they'd run upstairs to toss their 'bad sandwich'. That's what they called it. My junkie room mate would be falling asleep in the mornings cereal explaining the 'bad sandwich' situation. I wasn't socializing well with the flat mates, it wasn't really that college bonding experience I imagined. I remember the revelation one night, in my wonder of why I wasn't fitting in. "hmmm, oh yeah, I live with two junkies, a pot head, an alcoholic art student who had to drop out due to bad grades and my room mate is addicted to AOL and chewing on ice til 2am." It felt good to know this was normalcy I was coming to terms with, but still.
I just needed to remind myself. That sometimes, sometimes, the world is a whole lot more fucked up than I am.