At the end of January, I landed myself in a room in the ICU around 5 in the morning. I took a nap prior and did my homework until I got a violent urge to throw up. This continued from 2 AM to 5 AM and I realized I couldn't solve this pain on my own. At 5:45, I remember forcing myself to swallow my pride and call my college's Public Safety to take me to the nearest hospital. I laid in that hospital bed, my abdomen in agony, unable to cry. At first, I thought this would pass and then I could go to sleep for class, that I had food poisoning and it was just excruciatingly painful this time. Turns out I was suffering from severe dehydration, resulting in my body rejecting food, water, and medication. Everything that went down came back up within seconds. Every time I threw up, it feel like I was getting rid of my stomach acid. In reality, I was. I hadn't had food or water for an entire day because my body struggled to keep anything down.

The night shift nurses were so helpful and tried to make my experience as painless as possible but it was so painful I felt like I was dying. Severe dehydration is pure agony and I have a high pain tolerance. That abdominal pain was the worst thing I've ever encountered in my life. They hooked me up to an IV for about six hours and my body shivered from the fluids entering my vein. One thing that bothers me about this is that my doctor asked me if I was my natural weight. It took me aback because I have a high metabolism so it's hard for me to gain weight. I mean I'm a 20-year-old person who weighs about 90-100 pounds. Who wouldn't be concerned? In this case, I lost weight from repeatedly having my head in the trash can in my dorm room. I ended up missing my two morning classes and having to email my professors about the situation.

I learned a few things after my first ICU experience. One, I need to bring water or another hydrating drink with me when I'm on the move to class. Two, I need to call for help more often instead of suffering alone. And three, I need to start eating breakfast every day.

Space for rent is where you make the mistake of getting a place with four close friends so that you can become worst enemies. After three months, none of the cool things you wanted to do have materialized. You wanted to start your own brewery, so you bought the Mr. Beer™, "brew-your-own" kit and drank it a week after it'd started fermenting. Well, not you, but Tom.

You can remember Tom telling you, "My pee is cloudy and clotted like a Belgian wheat ale with a hint of classy orange peel zest!"

"Bro, you drank my Mr. Beer Belgian Wheat Ale Orange-boy Extra Hoppy Hops Machine™?!"

"Yeah, we didn't have beer money." Stupid you!

"Whatever..."

All four of your roommates work as "dough-spinners" or "pie-pounders", two terms that you created in order to un-demoralize the $7.50 an hour that you make, because that's .25 cents more than the Georgia minimum wage and you were lucky to land that prestigious job in one of America's formerly most affordable cities according to an issue of Forbes written in 2008, when every city was as affordable as Atlanta.

"Bro, who ate all the food?" One of four roommates will ask the other three people they're living on top of.

"The food's communal, remember?" Someone reminds you of the "group huddle" that you had when the first box of clothing landed on the apartment floor. That same box hasn't moved in months.

"Bro, I bought it all!" You're right this time, it was you who bought those 20 boxes of macaroni and cheese, but everyone thinks everyone else is wrong. Someone's gotta be the freeloader, right? Well it sure as hell isn't you!

"Yeah, but we gotta have munchies!" Weed. You get it? It's funny because they were high and ate all the food, and now there's no food, and the next paycheck isn't for a week. Actually, I stand corrected, there's a partial pack of Carolina Pride Baloney™ in the crisper drawer that you got for a "steal" at .69 cents a pack. No one touches it because it cooks up like plastic.

There are eventually conversations like, "Why aren't you at work?" with answers like, "Didn't feel like it.", or, "Hey man, can I just borrow like..." this sentence is cut short with a long stare, "...ten dollars to pay for rent?" You know that "ten dollars" is code for, "I'm short about $400 on my $200 rent, but I got another paycheck coming in from poundin' pies and spinnin' dough so high, up in the sky! I'll get you back for last month and this month." You'll never see that money.

Then one day the fourth roommate is gone, they took the X-box with them that no one seems to be sure who originally owned, but they all swear it was theirs. The chairs are gone too, so is the beanbag and, well, all the electronics. All you're left with is a bunch of bills and the $500 bong everyone thought it would be super funny to pitch in on. Sorry, I was wrong again, they took the bong too. All you're left with is blunt wraps, and they're somewhere beneath the blanket of bills.

"Man, I'm so sorry dude. I can't get rent this month, but I'll get you back next month." It's weird that Tom says this, because he came home the night prior bragging about how he was super broke, because he needed to get a new tattoo.

"Are you kidding?!" As someone also in dire financial straits, who doesn't have a single tattoo themselves, you try to understand.

"Why do you need a tattoo?"

"Well it wasn't a tattoo, I was just getting some ink touched up."

"With what money?!"

"Oh, don't worry, I got a good deal." The good deal only cost him about $200 an hour down at Ink City. You know when he's lying. He says he was only there for two hours, but don't worry, Ink City does good work.

He then fills you in on the fact that, "You should get some ink!" All you can do is nothing.

No one has anymore money, you all begin to slowly hate one another, you ask each other to keep respective hands off of respective food, but no one listens. Then you start bringing "pies" back from Dough-Dumpster™. It's stuff you screwed up intentionally so that you could bring it home with you, but no one listens. You swap out pizzas to slight one another when you could all just agree on what pizza you want for that night, but the spite digs in, so there are four extra large pizzas, all with different toppings. They sit on the kitchen counter and sometimes roaches get on them.

At some point you get one of the remaining pint glasses out of your cupboard and fill it with classy Steel Reserve. No wait, you can't afford Steel Reserve anymore. Now it's Hurricane. Wrong again, it's actually Milwaukee's Best. Then half a day later, that 30 pack runs out and you're forced to buy Keystone Ice, but the flavor is unbearable. You used to have money for limes and salt so that you didn't have to taste any of what you were drinking. You're sitting there alone in the dark because the power is off and don't know what to do about the flavor, so you dissolve a pizza into your beer. Pizza-beer! You think it's funny, but it's not. It's the official drink of the Depression-Bowl™.

One day you're sitting on the living room futon on top of some hard pizzas. It was smashed with a bat in a drunken rage. You go to the dining room, because the dining room futon hasn't been smashed yet and has way less pizza on it. You're having trouble walking. Is it a stroke? No, it's an ocean of beer cans that touches your knees. Then it dawns on you, how are you always able to afford beer, weed, and smokes? Whatever.

Everyone quits their job then slowly disappears along with the remaining items, and so does your credit score. You play musical-apartments with random friends, you eventually end up on a friend's family member's friend's couch somewhere before he tells you it's Kind of weird. You and your former friends proceed to despise one another for the entirety of the next year. That's it.

Well not exactly, because one day you have a great new job at Tony Pepperoni's Pizza Party Palace™ making a comfy $8.50 an hour. You've been talking to those old friends again because the air has cleared. You're a drunk, so you've forgotten exactly where it all began, and then you see a place you can't afford on your own, but that has enough space for so many activities; a music and art studio, a spot for brewing beer, and a room for all your Funko Pops™ and other manchild gear. On the front of the door it has those magical words that make you remember all the fun you had living with your former roommates, "Space for rent".

Space for rent is where you make the mistake of getting a place with four close friends so that you can become worst enemies. After three months, none of the cool things you wanted to do have materialized. You wanted to start your own brewery, so you bought the Mr. Beer™, "brew-your-own" kit and drank it a week after it'd started fermenting. Well, not you, but Tom.

You can remember Tom telling you, "My pee is cloudy and clotted like a Belgian wheat ale with a hint of classy orange peel zest!"

"Bro, you drank my Mr. Beer Belgian Wheat Ale Orange-boy Extra Hoppy Hops Machine™?!"

"Yeah, we didn't have beer money." Stupid you!

"Whatever..."

All four of your roommates work as "dough-spinners" or "pie-pounders", two terms that you created in order to un-demoralize the $7.50 an hour that you make, because that's .25 cents more than the Georgia minimum wage and you were lucky to land that prestigious job in one of America's formerly most affordable cities according to an issue of Forbes written in 2008, when every city was as affordable as Atlanta.

"Bro, who ate all the food?" One of four roommates will ask the other three people they're living on top of.

"The food's communal, remember?" Someone reminds you of the "group huddle" that you had when the first box of clothing landed on the apartment floor. That same box hasn't moved in months.

"Bro, I bought it all!" You're right this time, it was you who bought those 20 boxes of macaroni and cheese, but everyone thinks everyone else is wrong. Someone's gotta be the freeloader, right? Well it sure as hell isn't you!

"Yeah, but we gotta have munchies!" Weed. You get it? It's funny because they were high and ate all the food, and now there's no food, and the next paycheck isn't for a week. Actually, I stand corrected, there's a partial pack of Carolina Pride Baloney™ in the crisper drawer that you got for a "steal" at .69 cents a pack. No one touches it because it cooks up like plastic.

There are eventually conversations like, "Why aren't you at work?" with answers like, "Didn't feel like it.", or, "Hey man, can I just borrow like..." this sentence is cut short with a long stare, "...ten dollars to pay for rent?" You know that "ten dollars" is code for, "I'm short about $400 on my $200 rent, but I got another paycheck coming in from poundin' pies and spinnin' dough so high, up in the sky! I'll get you back for last month and this month." You'll never see that money.

Then one day the fourth roommate is gone, they took the X-box with them that no one seems to be sure who originally owned, but they all swear it was theirs. The chairs are gone too, so is the beanbag and, well, all the electronics. All you're left with is a bunch of bills and the $500 bong everyone thought it would be super funny to pitch in on. Sorry, I was wrong again, they took the bong too. All you're left with is blunt wraps, and they're somewhere beneath the blanket of bills.

"Man, I'm so sorry dude. I can't get rent this month, but I'll get you back next month." It's weird that Tom says this, because he came home the night prior bragging about how he was super broke, because he needed to get a new tattoo.

"Are you kidding?!" As someone also in dire financial straits, who doesn't have a single tattoo themselves, you try to understand.

"Why do you need a tattoo?"

"Well it wasn't a tattoo, I was just getting some ink touched up."

"With what money?!"

"Oh, don't worry, I got a good deal." The good deal only cost him about $200 an hour down at Ink City. You know when he's lying. He says he was only there for two hours, but don't worry, Ink City does good work.

He then fills you in on the fact that, "You should get some ink!" All you can do is nothing.

No one has anymore money, you all begin to slowly hate one another, you ask each other to keep respective hands off of respective food, but no one listens. Then you start bringing "pies" back from Dough-Dumpster™. It's stuff you screwed up intentionally so that you could bring it home with you, but no one listens. You swap out pizzas to slight one another when you could all just agree on what pizza you want for that night, but the spite digs in, so there are four extra large pizzas, all with different toppings. They sit on the kitchen counter and sometimes roaches get on them.

At some point you get one of the remaining pint glasses out of your cupboard and fill it with classy Steel Reserve. No wait, you can't afford Steel Reserve anymore. Now it's Hurricane. Wrong again, it's actually Milwaukee's Best. Then half a day later, that 30 pack runs out and you're forced to buy Keystone Ice, but the flavor is unbearable. You used to have money for limes and salt so that you didn't have to taste any of what you were drinking. You're sitting there alone in the dark because the power is off and don't know what to do about the flavor, so you dissolve a pizza into your beer. Pizza-beer! You think it's funny, but it's not. It's the official drink of the Depression-Bowl™.

One day you're sitting on the living room futon on top of some hard pizzas. It was smashed with a bat in a drunken rage. You go to the dining room, because the dining room futon hasn't been smashed yet and has way less pizza on it. You're having trouble walking. Is it a stroke? No, it's an ocean of beer cans that touches your knees. Then it dawns on you, how are you always able to afford beer, weed, and smokes? Whatever.

Everyone quits their job then slowly disappears along with the remaining items, and so does your credit score. You play musical-apartments with random friends, you eventually end up on a friend's family member's friend's couch somewhere before he tells you it's Kind of weird. You and your former friends proceed to despise one another for the entirety of the next year. That's it.

Well not exactly, because one day you have a great new job at Tony Pepperoni's Pizza Party Palace™ making a comfy $8.50 an hour. You've been talking to those old friends again because the air has cleared. You're a drunk, so you've forgotten exactly where it all began, and then you see a place you can't afford on your own, but that has enough space for so many activities; a music and art studio, a spot for brewing beer, and a room for all your Funko Pops™ and other manchild gear. On the front of the door it has those magical words that make you remember all the fun you had living with your former roommates, "Space for rent".

So this one night I was Rocky’s shooting cocaine intravenously. The year was probably something like 2002 when this anecdote from my life was born.  If memory serves, and it usually does (more on my eiditic memory later), I had been on binge for a couple of days and then I ran out of coke.  I had the money to buy the coke but it was election time so drugs, in general, were scarce.   It’s always like that in the fall.  But, somehow, some way, I got me some money and was I able to score me some dope.  After I got back from getting the dope I went and got my only rig, the same fucking rig I had been using for probably at least a week because back then that’s what I had to do.  There were none of these fancy-dancy needle exchanges until the heroin junkies started dropping like flies from the fentynal onset.

I remember being angry alot about the lack of anywhere to buy a needle because here’s the deal whether you like it or not does not change the fact that a junkie is going to get high and there’s not a fucking thing in this world you could ever say or do to stop him unless you were a cop and arresting him or you were his murderer.

So, I get to Rocky’s bedroom after returning from making the score  after searching for 20 minutes (more about the weird shit i do when I get high later) for my needle I finally found it.  I dumped some of my powder into a cap or maybe it was a spoon, I actually don’t remember…weird…and then I turned on the bathroom sink and caught the water coming out of the faucet with my left hand cupped.  My right hand, at this point, is holding the needle with the point in the water from the faucet which is filling, as best as it can, my cupped hand.

I begin to draw up the water and just as about 10ml are at the mark on the ruler on the rig, the long part of the syringe which is used to draw the liquid, the plunger,  pops out of the rubber grommet which is what causes the suction.  The reason for this is that I have literally used this needle so many times that the plastic stick part actually destroyed the threading which made the ball holder shaped divet in the rubber grommet too big and the ball on the end of the plunger stick just popped right out.

To say I’ve been here before, many times would be a vast understatement.

 I wasn’t going to dick around with this useless ass broken ass motherfucking needle anymore.  There was a CVS Pharmacy right down the street.  It was one of only two in my city which stayed open 24 hours along with the pharmacy.

I knew what I had to do.  I threw on my shoes and I’m sure a black, long-sleeved top and whatever shoes I owned at the time.  It was always only one pair, whatever currently happened to be on my feet.  I grabbed my keys and off I went to Rite Aid.   No way in hell Rite Aid was gonna sell me a bag of needles but perhaps there was some way I could convince the pharmacist.  Thing is, I was jonesing for this hit so bad that I knew, as I was driving there, I wasn’t fucking taking no for an answer.

I pulled into the parking lot and proably sat there and freaked out a little bit but not much because I knew…I mean I FUCKING KNEW I WAS GONNA LEAVE WITH WHAT I CAME FOR, PERIOD.

I walked into the store and headed straight back to the pharmacy.  It was weird because it was only the pharmacist there working.  There was no tech.  The pharmacist asked how she could help me and I said, “I need a pack of U-100 diabetic syringes”.

The pharmacist then asked for my diabetic card to which I replied I hadn’t one.

The pharmacist looked at me and said, “I’m sorry but without the card I can’t sell you these."

This wasn’t shocking.  I knew she would refuse me.  I had nothing prepared to say, though, so I winged it and here is how it went:  I said, “Ok, well, then I guess I’m gonna go climb into the dumpster on the backside of the parking lot and dig in the trash until I find a needle.  When I find one, I’m going to put it in my arm and get high.  When I come down will probably be about the same time you get off work and when I see you leave I’m going to follow you home so that I know where you live.  Then, I’m going to find everyone in your family and I’M GOING TO FUCK THEM.

The pharmacist replied, “Here, I will sell you this bag but don’t ever come into this store again”.

To this day, I've never been in that store again.

You say my name, and I forget the question. And for a second, maybe an eternity, my mind is wrapped around your tongue. My mind is a mole-hill mountain. I’m vertical-careening. My mind is the space between here and there. I’m thrashing on air. I’m writhing in saliva-ocean. Lost in an unyielding void where a few letters rested heavy in your mouth. I’m flying. I’m flying. I’m floating. I’m falling. I’m floundered. I’m drowning. I’m drowning. I’m drowning. I’m drowned. And if it ends in ache then break me here. Black and wet. Let me ache sempiternal, restless, in your mouth.

Sitting here with you on the couch watching tears stream down your face due to the painful memories neither one of us can erase..

I never ponder of what would come of my one deceitful action that spiraled into years of explosive fights and painful lonely nights..

As I sit listening to your scars caused by me I am punished again as I should be Karma reaches in solar plexus deep twisting so slowly completing me..

I use to fear her sharp fingernails now I sit and enjoy the reminder of our perfect past Now I will forever always have a piece even if I have to suffer we will always be..

*{In Galatians 4 Paul is going to use this story to present the 2 Covenants -- the Old Covenant of Law, which he says is unto slavery.  And the New Covenant of Grace, which is unto Freedom.  These are symbolized by the 2 women who Abraham was involved with and the 2 sons born.  Ismael, a child of the law and slavery, and Isaac, the child of grace and promise, the child of freedom}*Genesis 16:1-Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, bore him no children; and she had an Egyptianfemale servant, whose name was Hagar.Gen 16:2- And Sarai said to Abram, Because Jehovah has prevented me from bearing, please go in to my female servant; perhaps I will have children through her. And Abram listened to the voice of Sarai.*{God told Abram that the heir had to be from him.  But they were in their 80's and were beyond the days of childbearing.  It was impossible, for sure through Sarai.  So Abram's wife makes a suggestion -- use the maid servant Hagar, and have a child with her.  And Abraham listened to the voice of his wife.  Sometimes this is a good thing to do, and sometimes NOT.  It was not good for Adam.  And this also turned out to be a bad choice for Abram.Gen 16:3- So after Abram had dwelt ten years in the land of Canaan, Sarai, Abram’s wife, took Hagar the Egyptian, her female servant, and gave her to Abram her husband to be a wife.

Ma can hardly feed herself, even if her food is cut into little pieces. It’s a mess, more finds it’s way to her lap and the floor than her mouth. Sometimes she forgets she’s eating and falls asleep.

She tried to tell me today that the pretty blonde girl brought her ice cream. After about ten minutes, struggling to find words that fit, she gave up. I did understand it involved strawberries.

Last week she tried to tell me they were doing road construction near a place I used to live. She can remember that, she reads the paper and those old memories—ghosts—re-emerge from her fog. The details, again lost in a confounded maze of words.

Sometimes she reads the same paper over and over and over again... She knows it’s the 1990s and Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan is President.

Looking at the calendar on the wall I realize July 5th will be three years in the nursing home—a fine place, staffed with good people.

Ma’s Hell is in her head, not the home.

I try to straighten her leg and place it on the wheelchair footrest and she screams in pain, as she’s cursing the staff for not letting her walk. She requires two people and a machine to get her from bed. She has to press a button and ask for help to piss. More often then not she forgets to ask and just pisses.

Out the window staring at the sky I curse the silent, fabled god that allows this. Maybe I can’t find the fabled god because I’m too fucking mad all the time. I’m more inclined to think this is simply how we die, one cell at a time, until the spark finally, mercifully fades and the eyes go dull.

The pillow on her bed screams a solution to me every day. A minute of struggle and the nightmare ends.

I look in the mirror and realize I lack the courage to do what’s right.

Weak, gutless and defeated, I once again try to explain how to answer the phone, and all those buttons on the TV remote.

As I approach the coolness of the refrigerated goods, I see a woman about my age with very grown-out highlights juggling four rambunctious children, three of whom are tearing through the towers of Yoplait arguing over which flavors are the best. I pity and envy her at the same time. I bet she is exhausted with all those kids so close in age. I drop a strawberry Greek yogurt into my basket as I watch her struggle to hold her cell phone between her shoulder and left ear while tossing some cream cheese into her cart behind the chubby-legged baby sitting in the front. I wonder if she has to work too, or if she gets to stay home with them. I am undecided if that would be a nightmare or something pleasant for her. The three kids finally make their flavor choices and throw an array of containers into the cart when one little boy runs to the opposite side of the aisle to look at the cookies. He knocks over a whole display of Krispy Kremes in his hurried mission. Passerbys stop to look, then continue on with their shopping. One older lady just shakes her head and does not hesitate to stop. She must not have ever had children of her own. Of course, neither have I, but I am not so intolerant to simply shake my head at the mother and walk away. One man acted as if he did not see it at all. Polite inattention can be so rude sometimes. The mom hits a button on her cell phone and throws it into her red purse next to the baby, and with an exaggerated sigh, runs over to the clumsy kid while simultaneously yelling at the other two to help her clean up the kid’s donut mess. I hesitate to help them, but there’s so much activity going on in that area that I might just make things more difficult. I push my cart to continue past when I see a younger teenager with sagging basketball shorts, hoodie, and a red face anxiously looking at the baby. Why would someone be wearing a hoodie in this hot weather? Teenagers aren’t very logical anymore, it seems. He doesn’t have any groceries in his hands and doesn’t seem to be looking for any either. Actually, now that I look at him, he is standing frozen in the middle of the space between the donut mess and the lady’s cart. Maybe he gets too cold in this refrigerated area, literally freezes in place, and that’s why he needs his oversized sweatshirt. He takes a half step forward, hesitates, then starts walking toward the baby after taking a quick side-glance at the family to his right. What is he looking so intently at, I wonder? Is this an older, fifth child of hers? Why is he acting so strange? I notice then that his gaze is not fixed on the baby that is now drooling all over the handle of the cart, but on the wide open red purse sitting next to it. My hands get cold and sweaty when I realize his intent, and hope that the mother turns around to check on her baby, but she doesn’t. He quickly pulls up his sagging shorts and stumbles forward toward the cart, and starts to reach out his hand that I can see from here is already shaking. My heart does a quick thump, and I push my cart aside with a force I forgot I even had and dart toward the drooling baby. The teen’s gaze is so intently fixed on his prize he does not see me coming, and becomes visibly startled when I assertively slam my hand down on the red purse. He jumps for a moment and looks up at me wide-eyed with his hand still out toward the purse, barely touching the strap hanging over the edge.

“This is not yours!” I say in a voice I do not even recognize as my own, followed by two deep breaths to catch up from my sprint. He lets a squeak escape from his throat as his eyes dart toward the donut catastrophe.

“I wasn’t—I was just checking—” he stutters, obviously panicking, as a bead of sweat forms above his bushy eyebrow.

“I think you’d better leave. Now,” I say a little louder, not moving my hand from the purse. I watch him pull his hand back slowly and begin to walk backwards while he mumbles some sort of apology before turning and literally running away from the cart. The baby is looking up at me, scared, and looks as though it’s about to cry. A string of drool hangs from the baby's quivering chin, and its shiny pink lips begin to pucker. I pull my hand away, walk away to retrieve my own cart, which was facing completely sideways in the center of the aisle, and glance back at the family. I sneak a twenty into her purse. The mom finally stands, brushes off her knees, and scolds her children while turning around to face her baby. The baby bursts into tears as she jogs toward him, cooing and shushing. The mom retrieves her cell phone from her purse and swears. I push my cart toward the front of the store, forgetting the bread, and check out in the fast lane.

As I exit the store, the sunshine makes me sneeze. Anxious shuffling to my left suddenly goes still. It's that bratty teenager attempting to fish his keys out from the storm drain using a marshmallow roasting stick with a sales tag still attached. He cowers, waits for me to say something.

I put my groceries in the car, and drive off.