“FFF”

Life is a cheap bottle of vodka you pull from a plastic bottle. That you pulled from a plastic coated metal shelf on the bottom shelf. The shelf was dusty and you looked dustier. The price label that sticks out like a fat lady trying to fit into her wedding dress in a trailer park high on her 4th day of a crack binge has been there since 1996.

Cheap vodka reminds me of my life. Settling for the lowest common denominator because I don't think anything else will ever make me feel okay. Even when it smacks me right in the face.

Like I get into a fight with a guy somewhere and he slaps me right in the face with a bottle of Grey Goose and I feel the top of the line merchandising advertise worthy coating on the glass bottle. How cold it still is because of it's proper packaging. How it doesn't break across my face and knocks me the fuck out as well as a few teeth.

I think no way man. Shit that was pure luck. Much rather have grabbed a cheap glass bottle of vodka. ALWAYS gets the job done and it's fucking cheap and you can get drunk with the bottle you buy after you run the guys pockets. This one definitely breaks on faces.

When I wake up in a puddle of my own blood, I begin to ponder how the metaphorical is dancing in a circle around my ammonia laden brain. Then I think I shouldn't think such thoughts, because god forbid they manifested wet brain at my young tender age.. fuck I'm not so young anymore man. Going to ignore that thought too, as I shake my head vigorously and likely exacerbate the guaranteed concussion I am currently suffering from.

Checking my teeth, and horrified to discover some of my choice ones missing. I immediately wanted to get drunk. Did he run my pockets? No he didn't. I guess this was close enough to the French Quarter that he dipped the second he dabbled with nearly rendering me a vegetable with a liquor bottle.

I try to clean myself off the best I can, and then walk my drunk, disheveled, decompensating quickly, debilitated emotionally self to the nearest corner store bodega. I have not a single thought in my head. All I know is I feel like shit, and I know why, and no need to think about any of them.

We all know how we spiral mentally when the enormity of the hard lives we lived and undertook and didn't undertake come crashing down on us quite often due to our own volition I daresay always by the volitive of our own intrusive dickhead subconscious trying to bully us like an inner city gang discovering a leaning heroin addict and smacking him in the face hard as they can repeatedly attempting to have him experience a relatively severe fall at that angle. Those kids don't realize that anyone can die.

It's vulgar and cruel but it's fun is all that they know. Even the people they kill with the .38's and 9mm's in their pockets they honestly don't have any accurate conception of that they are no longer with us on this earth and instead died on a sdiewalk in a pile of their own blood, and the blood of everyone who had died in baltimore and seeped into the sidewalk and gutters and grassy shit lawns that barely resemble one. At least they aren't alone as the souls of each person yell out and whisper rather creepily how they died and why they aren't in heaven and how they should stay because you know if you a true Baltimore local you NEVER FUCKING LEAVE BALTIMORE.

Bad places, good places, the worst places, abominable places like where a fucking snowman lives in the artic circle in some shit hole Russian village where everyone the entire population since the beginning of that village existence has died of liver cirohssis and incest related genetic malformities all these places have a terrible habit of sucking you into their gravitational pull through comfortability, through trauma, through dead friends who though no longer living are your tether to a place that will one day prematurely cause your own. The THREE F'S, FENTANYL FIREARMS FOUR BY FOURS.