I Love Drugs

I mean, obviously it’s shit being homeless but recently it’s gotten so much harder… Earlier this evening the “mate” who’s letting me stay went on what I’m now pretty certain was a fishing expedition… trying to get me to admit to doing something that I just haven’t done, namely smoked my gear (heroin) outside of my designated area, as per his rules. I don’t do that, but what’s strange is that the time he picks to accuse me is on a morning when I’d had hardly any gear to smoke, and definitely didn’t have any white (crack) leftover from the night before…yet he’s saying that he could smell it all over the house when he came home from work.

Can you see now why I’m calling it a fishing expedition and not a genuine complaint about me breaking rules??

Does he think I enjoy sitting out here, in a freezing cold, tiny utility room off his kitchen? Does he think I like it that sometimes for absolutely no reason that I can see (except to wind me up) he comes and stares at me through the glass doors while I’m having my pipe? No, I don’t, I hate it. I wish I was back in my own place, sitting up in bed smoking where I used to smoke, warm and comfortable under my duvet cover, with Pixie for company.

Uggghh…do you know what? I can’t keep thinking and writing about this, it’s too depressing. I’m going back to my other love… reading 🙂