Four Months Later

Everything has fallen to shit.

I’ve lost Rachel.

I’ve lost Chris.

I quit my job.

I’m living in my Mom’s basement. I’ve been here a week. Eight days.

I haven’t been high or smoked a cigarette in eight days.

I’m trying to find a job.

I’m so depressed that it’s an effort to get out of bed. I never used to understand how people could go on government disability for depression. I do now. If I would admit to a doctor how bad it is I could get supplement checks. I’m unstable as fuck.

Neither Chris nor Rachel even knows where I am. I left town in the middle of the night. Rachel won’t give a shit, I know. Chris might.

There is a plan. A small thin plan. I’m going to swallow my pride and let my parents carry me for a while. I’m going to finish my education. I’m going to become a web technician/designer. I’m going to have a small little house out in the country. It can be a rental. I won’t care. I’m going to grow my own weed and make webpages for money and listen to podcasts live my life how I want to fucking live it and I’m going to be left the fuck alone.

I’m waiting for my stepfather to come home and go to bed. I don’t have a dealer here but I did bring maybe three little bowlpacks with me. My favorite podcast updated today. It’s a sporadic one but it’s so worth the wait. After Davis gets home I’m going to go out to my car and smoke a bowl and listen to the show. I’ve got Nyquil and beer. I’m going to have to get a job. Get a job. Find a dealer. Survive.

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