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Sunday, December 18, 2011

Junkie Girl

"There's a fear there I have to let go. Then I'll be able to quit."

That's what she said as she jabbed the needle into her arm. I said, "Well, you better let it go sooner than later, because if you keep this up there's going to be no you to let it go."

She just smiled at me and pushed the plunger, shooting the shit into the bulging blue vein of her left arm. "Yeah, that's the point isn't it?"

A chill ran down my spine as I watched her face go flush white with the violent pleasure of the smack hitting her brain. I knew it wasn't working though and never would. If it was that easy, suicide would be reality game show on TV. I don't know if she was consciously trying to kill herself, but what's the difference? Dead is dead. And I knew she would be sooner or later if she didn't quit her hard candy habit.

Yeah, so my new girlfriend was a fucking heroin junkie. A junkie girl. So what. She was sooooo beautiful. A real ten, from head to toe. Natural. No additives needed. Very little make-up, but what she did wear was like icing on a great tasting cake, whip-cream on the world's most-delicious ice cream. It was only necessary because it was expected. Not by me, but by the world. She had to take it easy on the world and that was her cross to bear. If the world loved people half as much as she did, heaven would be ushered in immediately. And believe it or not, she held down a pretty good job. A lawyer for a big firm in downtown Trenton who's name shall remain nameless. That was probably causing a lot of conflict in her mind and most-likely tied into that fear she mentioned above. I mean, practicing law is not exactly a career for people with a kind heart. Her curse was that she had a brain to go with hers. But yeah, she was a heroin addict. Relatively healthy, for the time-being, but unable to stop plunging a needle into her frickin' arm every night for the past two years or so. There's a lot of myths about heroin users out there - they can hold jobs and live relatively normal lives on the surface - but one of them is not about the number of deaths the junk causes. So from day one, I was prepared to lose her. I knew I could come home any day and find her sprawled out somewhere in the house, unable to wake-up, dead as a doorknob. I was prepared. And damn if that didn't make me love her even more.

So junkie girlfriend, a.k.a.  Regina The Beautiful moved in with me about nine months after my divorce. She didn't seem to mind the gambling like my ex-wife did. Of course I wasn't spending half her paycheck each month on trying to out-guess the unguessable. So I had a clean slate with Regina for the most part. Or maybe it was just an even one. I mean, heroin junkie and gambling fiend? As far as pissing away money, they're probably about equal, though I suspected she had the edge when it came to pure pleasure. Losing money gambling sucks. It's about the worse feeling I think you can have without being physically sick. Shooting heroin feels great I'm sure. It's the stopping part that's a bitch. So while my pleasure and pain were mixed together, intermittent and often based on how much partying a group of three-hundred pound lineman did the night before their football game, her pleasure was pretty consistent as long as she got her nightly dose of dope. No doubt her time would come and she'd have to pay the piper one way or another. At least my account with karma was kept up-to-date.