The Ancient Tribal Junkies Of The Southeastern United States.

Several thousand years ago, a syringe-worshiping peoples inhabited this particular region. They had a rather simple civilization...most likely they robbed neighboring tribespeople and traded stolen goods for the small amount of food they desired and other necessities.

It just so happens that my husband and I have purchased a piece of real estate located precisely over the sacred syringe burial ground of these people, and our house appears to be infested with these ancient syringe artifacts. In fact, a syringe appeared in our bedroom just this morning. It appeared to have fallen out of a pocket of his pants; however, it seems that the logical explanation for how he syringe got on our floor was that, due to the particular molecular structure of this tribe's sacred syringes, it was absorbed from the earth through the floorboards of our home and emerged, fully formed, on our bedroom carpet.

My husband has no idea where this syringe might have come from, so it seems that the only logical explanation is that it is very, very old. Ancient. It was so old, in fact, that he had to demonstrate the needle's lack of a sharp edge, the crustiness of the brownish substance caking the sides, the plunger's lack of pliability. Sure, he used to dabble a bit with heroin and syringes and all that, but it's been, like, almost a MONTH since he last used, and the needle couldn't possibly have anything to do with him using. It couldn't possibly be his. Could I, possibly, have planted it there to trap him? (Yes, he suggested this.) Perhaps it belongs to someone else. (No one except for me and him has been in this house in over a month.) Maybe it's from when he relapsed (Note: relapsED. It's in the past. Don't put it in the present, or you might get a tantrum.) Maybe it's one he set aside, you know, for sentimental reasons. Maybe he was going to make a scrapbook or something.

Fucking Dumbass Shit.

I've been given instructions to write a gratitude list...and I'm just about to get to that...but first, I need to bitch about something.

The fucking thing that I hate most right now in my life is being scared--scared for myself, for my man, and for my stuff.

The fucking thing that I hate second most in my life right now is the tediousness of it all. I hate all these ghetto scenarios this dumbass man I love keeps getting me stuck in. I hate having to think about "pawn shops" and "dealers" and "guns" and all that kind of wannabe thug dumbshit. I fucking hate the stories that I am always telling people. I hate the entire rhetoric of addict-life...the pawn and steal and gun and lie and twenty dollars and blah blah blah. I have better things to do with my head. I have better language to use than that.

It's ghetto.