Bitter Bite: China White

Poverty is a fucking thorn in my side. The unchanging fate of my life falls prey to the tragedy of being yet another commoner – even more so because I’m enveloped by it. I could be worse off, but there’s a cold knife in my gut serving as a reminder that the loss of a roof is closer than it feels. Even the best of us become victims of our environment in one way or another. That or they stick around to plague the rest of us like a sociopath with a magnifying glass. Funnily enough, I’m on the right side of the fence where I won’t be ushered out of town for being a vagrant. It’s waiting for me though, belly up in the shadows. I can already see it drooling as it waits to lick the flop sweat off me like it was Italian seasoning. A revolving door of scoring and loosing money to track marks between the webbing of my toes. Forced to endure smiles around me which erode even the insignificant and mundane details of my life, like being dyed and bleached to smooth out the fallacies they think they need to fix until the bright bits of my identity don’t shine as much as they used to. To make matters worse, all my friends and I are stuck in a smokey corner of a bar with low light and enough sauce to blind us from all the guilt that should be ripping our pathetic hearts to ribbons. It draws me only nearer to the sound of sirens, whom I know want to drown me in their whiskey. They need another hobby at this point. Since mine is to count how many bottle caps I’ve saved in a German stein in a single week, you can bet my sweet vanilla ass that the time between my binges will continue to become significantly fewer; driving me to the gutter I know that wants my backside to keep warm until the night I turn into a cold, blue popsicle for a jogger to find and Fox News to cover. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be lucky if I make it to 60. Until then, I’ll kiss each and every one of those harpies on their snaggle-toothed beak every time I knock one back. At the very least, I don’t smoke anymore – filthy habit. Saves me money too. A leg up to keep me from propping up a tent under a Portland freeway. Boy, do I miss it though. Not the headaches, you see, but the sweet brown oder that sticks to your clothes. The gritty-yellow stains that covered the tips of my fingers, underneath my nails; nicotine practically dripping like an acid trip out of the pores of my thumb. It was a filthy part of me to others, but she didn’t judge me, my mistress. She was the only love that held me without asking. There when I needed her, and as long as a had a pack of Lucy’s in my pocket, I knew that I’d be okay. Jesus, I’m considering having a cigarette just thinking about it.  
Staying on topics that might ruin my life – I should start pretending to be whatever closely resembles a functioning alcoholic/drug addict if I want to stay off the block and keep from selling this sweet peach of mine. I’m not an addict in the traditional sense of the term, not that I don’t wish I could be. Think back to the whole ‘cigarette’ thing from earlier. Trading one mistress for another. When the possibility of that day looks less bleak, hopefully I’ll still have the nuts to slap an eighteen gage needle up the left side of my arm, let the rubber tourniquet loose, and let all that China White sunshine I bought hit me in the ticker so hard I get a nod from the dragon before it even knew I was chasing it; still, it’s tempting to do while I’m young. Maybe all I need is a loyal person around whose a royal bad influence to get me hooked on the junk. Because, shit if If it isn’t true, I could use a friend right about now – lucky for me if I find one, they just better have tar on them. 


One thought on “Bitter Bite: China White

  1. Anonymous says:

    How immature. Did you write this at age 15? CLEAN UP YOUR ACT, GET A REAL JOB, & QUIT ADMIRING LOSERS, LIKE B DUNCAN. Man up!


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