Ghent, 2011

My friends threw me a party to celebrate me getting out of my house jail, which admittedly, was only ten days long. My veins were like a desert by that time. I could hear my bones crack up the stairs. I was thirsty but resolute. I would be dry. I had not a drop to drink the entire time out of fear they would find me at my house, passed out, ankle bracelet still plugged to wall. Dead. I would grow flowering cactus from my liver, Indian Ricegrass from my ankles. Dry.  I insisted on only weed for the night. 

“I’m done drinking!” I screamed over The Limousines and pulled my fishnets up. “Just drugs!” 

Someone passed me a blunt. Fifteen minutes later, someone passed me a flask and I was cool with that. 

Woke up in vomit on the floor.

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