The walk to work is endless in the bitter cold. I must will myself forward, re-commiting to the journey with every step. I so badly want to call in sick and just lay around the apartment watching tube – high – but I have to make it to work. I have to get that paycheck, have to get it to the check-cashing store, have to get the drugs in order to get right. Choice has nothing to do with it.
As much as I’m a fan of getting high, I know it’s a two way street. If you want to play, you gotta pay and usually in more ways than one. Right now I’m paying big time for letting my habit get out of control. Every day it gets more difficult to keep up. Instead of just doing it, getting sick and going through withdrawal, I’m stumbling through my weeks without enough cash to use the way I want. I can only maintain. I know that at some point, I’m going to hit a wall.
If only he could see himself through her eyes, then Kevin might understand just how petty and immature he comes off, so far from the tough guy persona he imagines for himself. He’d see how to her, he’s a prepubescent boy, his chubby cheeked face twisted into a pouty rage, howling about how emasculated he’ll feel without her on his arm at that miserable dinner.