My luck always deals me the last cigarette in a soft pack, as expected it was breached maliciously at the filter. I hate it when they are out of hard packs, I don�t really understand why on earth they make soft packs in the first place. So I lit up the bent coffin nail sealing the crack with my index finger and sucked as hard as I could. Pulling into traffic I realized it wasn�t worth multi-tasking my way into a six-car pileup. I need to quit anyhow. I suffocated the glowing cherry in an ashtray that overflowed like Horseshoe Falls.
Four gutter punk wannabe�s squatted in front of one of my favorite one story red buildings, pretending to have a real hard life and pretending to like it. They always eyed my car with awed approval. I didn�t give a shit I wish they would go home to their three-story town house in saber springs where their mom sits up at night for them. We have enough trash born and bred in this neighborhood we don�t need posers like them. I felt a pang for the kids who where actually forced into the streets. Vicious little shits, I won�t pull any punches. But if you can tell the difference between a bullshit story to get five bucks out of your average Sunday sucker, and the actual who what when and where that landed them in the grocery store parking lot asking for gas money to fill up the tank in an imaginary car. I normally segway into a conversation by asking sed youngsters why on earth ANYONE would want to return to a god forsaken place like Bakersfield? Usually gets a laugh. Well I have heard everything TRUST ME. And unfortunately the more horrific is usually the truth. Notice I said Horrific not Dramatic. But there is more often than not some demon named daddy or uncle Joe or mom�s new boyfriend that is chasing them. The rest of the time they are ungrateful little shits that got the boot because they couldn�t stop dropping balls or just split because they though it was perfectly okay to stay out until six am and skip school. A lot of times it�s all of the above..
So with a jackhammer in my head I pulled up in front of my charming little cottage. The house next door had been moved to a lot in El Cajon , and looking at the bits of flotsam and piles of debris the awning of the front stoop intact but rapidly collapsing, I felt like I lived in Bosnia.
I swung the door open narrowly missing the mustang convertible that was over the line, and put my shoe that said �Evil� on the top, onto the sticky pavement. I had been working (Which meant at that point clubbing) for four days straight. No sleep and no personal hygiene either. So my pants where at this point sticking to my leg and my socks where stiff as cardboard.
The air was as still and lifeless as the face of a girl of whom I have just requested a phone number from. Keep in mind I tried to smell better when I did this, but doing what I did to pay the rent at the time required creativity and no real time for romance anyway.
Yup at the mere price of about a six-inch parcel of epidermis I tumbled harmlessly into the derelict davenport, which has been added to picturesque nature of our blocks walkway.
It felt like the door of the sedan opened right into my inner ear, As did the wingtips scrapping up to me. I felt a small square device puncture my ribcage and the waking world fled out of my next exhalant breath
