“Tell me where it hurts,” he says.
Are you fucking kidding me? There isn’t enough time for that. But I know he’s not asking about that. My eyes are black from the corners to across the bridge of my nose, swollen across the bridge. My nose feels like hamburger meat rotting on a kitchen counter that we forgot to put away because Kenny actually showed up on time with the dope for once. That meat sweated and swelled and stank for a week before we finally came down and realized there was a dead animal rotting next to the empty cans of beer and overflowing ashtrays and stacks of dollar bills from a great weekend at the club.
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L'Erin Ogle 
I commented on this piece when it first appeared at LS. I meant what I said, but I failed to mention that I used to engage in pill seeking because they made me happy. The protagonist displays the correct, unapologetic tone. I used to judge such behavior harshly until I first experienced the joys of dopesickness. A lack of judgementalness rings through your honest and clear story. If it wasn’t there you’d be just another Just Say No Rat Bastard🐀.
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