It's so cold in Alaska

felix's picture

Snapshot, me at 41.

The gear seems to have run out yesterday. Managed to finagle, squeeze or otherwise wangle one last shot out of the dealer last night, against the upcoming pay.
A shot to warm me against the coming winter.
So now, here's winter, and I sit in a trashed flat. I'm halfway towards moving out of here, and half is the Word of the Day. Half-hearted attempts at packing things up, boxes half full and half the floor is covered in junk that needs moving. Not the kind of junk that moves itself, this is the heavy, static, entropy laden junk you accrete in life. Buddha heads wrapped in crumbling purple tissue paper start accusingly at me, joining the papier-mache Zebra in a chorus of guilt.
I think perhaps the only thing that spurs me to get up from the couch every half hour or so and shake myself at some more boxes, is the hopeless hope that I'll find a lost quarter weight, or perhaps some stashed cash from back in the day when I woke up in a flat with a quarter ounce minimum of gear somewhere on a table.
So much gear, so much cash that losing a small amount stashed was quite feasible, I found a quarterweight turned to milky paste maybe seven years after stashing it in my car - and I found it back in 2005. Despite the funny quality of the resultant mix, I shot it and apprehensively experienced a mild euphoria, waiting for some sign of poisoning or other systemic failure, which never came the same way the revolution didn't.
A pie heats in the oven, I'm negotiating with my partner to see if she wants half of the morsel, no money for food, but she's got Raisin Toast, I know she's holding out on me if she says she needs the pie but you've gotta offer right?
Lou, yeah, Lou plays, sad and strident. I have a big assignment due in less than 24 hours, Java program to handle runway modelling in an air traffic control simulation. 'Lisa Says', and I find something else to do other than implement a Comparator Interface which, frankly, will take more spare brainpower than I care to spare at the moment, if I am to model it properly in my mind's logic space. Maybe when this supped extra metro kicks in, or mebbe the 2mg of val I finally, reluctantly, guiltily imbibed minutes ago.
Guilt can drive you to using, but it doesn't just drop you off there, it hangs around, comes inside your habit, gets involved in every bloody facet of the beast. Bloody hell, you think bringing me here would be enough without its compound interest act being trotted out on a more than daily basis.
Lisa still Says, and I know Candy does too, all these gals Lou immortalised, someone should follow them all up and do a 'where are they now' type doco on them. Wouldn't that just be the perfect end to a perfect day?
Probably already done.
Just got a text back, the pie is mine to eat! She has some snags I stashed there a few days ago. The night is set. I am 41 and broke and buying a house and beyond dependent on opiates, well, beyond that point where you can think of any future without them. Night kids. Night macca pacca.