Even as I write this, I'm blitzed. Decent weed I picked up off of Cheese Brain earlier. The kid's name is actually Adam or something like that. He and I, Cheese and me, we have a lot more in common than pot. He got his nickname because they say his memory is as spotty as swiss cheese. They say there isn't anything that he hasn't tried at one point or another, but really, Cheese's vice has always been Meth. Fried his brain and now he wears that retarded nickname like a God damn badge of honor. He's a real winner. But he's got all the connections I need so that I never have to actually get my hands dirty. Not any more. I don't think I can handle being in the thick of things anymore. Picking up my own pot would mean being in the same room as every sweet and venomous narcotic I had ever loved. Fuck that. I'd rather let Cheese Brain do what he does best. Better him than me.
But I forgot what I was trying to say. That happens a lot now. Not that I think it's anything like Cheese's shit. I mean, I remember to get changed in the morning and I know my cell number and my friends' names and everything. Sometimes though I get fucked up on the stupidest shit. Like I can't remember what I said a week ago or promise I've made or topics I've already discussed. Sometimes it feels like they're slipping through my fingers. My thoughts. My memories. Everything is really fragile, isn't it? Like in an instant the world could change, lives can end and nothing really remains solid, in the end. Nothing is concrete. Nothing lasts forever. Sometimes I worry that after all the fucking drugs I've done that I might end up losing all my memories of who she was. If I lose the memories of her, then it's like she never existed.
But the whole point to this, I've decided, is to make this real. To put it down, written out in my words, in my own way. I never really thought I was any good with my words. I wrote music and that kinda shit, but I never had the head for this. But I'd rather this make no sense at all and still record something, than blink out of existence or something equally as lame.
About that pot I was talking about. I have this sickly obsession with expertly rolled blunts. I use only one brand of rolling paper because everything else doesn't have enough glue or tastes like ass. Zig-Zag's aren't flashy, they don't taste like cherries or coconut or anything. But they're decently cheap and they never burn my before the bud does. They're reliable. I like that quality in most things. So I've burnt through this first joint, partially because it's painfully early, but mainly because it gets me to normal. The gentle buzz is a comforting way to enhance this sick Skindred track, Nobody. Music's always been the backdrop to my life. If I'm sleeping, it's to music. Eating, working, playing, doesn't matter. Whatever I'm doing it's with music in hand. I used to sing. I still fuck with my bass every now and then, but not the way she deserves to be played. I used to play a lot. A band with some close friends. But I fucked that up. I guess I'm kinda good at that, now that I think about it. I mean, I never really managed to deal with everything before ending up like this. I didn't really get a chance at being normal.
What's normal, anyway? Wait a minute, hold that thought. I've got to take the dogs for a walk. I always love talking to the security guy behind the desk at the building's front doors when I'm ripped because nine times outta time, he's just as high as I am.
Getting home from work is always a bitch, even though my place is in the heart of the city. I have to drive into Toronto from the building on the Oakville outskirts that I work at and I always manage to hit traffic. It doesn't help that I've been working my balls off lately. After a long day there, the last thing I want to do is wait for other cars to move. I think there are too many people in the world. If someone started picking people off one by one in downtown Toronto I'd smile and thank the man and move on my way. Too many people.
So I wanted to start to talk about everything now, but I can't really think of where to begin. I could start at the beginning of things, but then that's kind of conformist of me, isn't it? I mean, I don't really want this to be like some bullshit story book. See, I told you I wasn't any good at this shit. I'm gunna blaze a joint and do a few Alterac Valley runs with my rogue and then see if I can't make some sense of all this.
I've decided that I wanted to start with her first. It just seems right, somehow. She was adopted when she was eight months old. She was French and her name was Cindy Lee. My grandmother hated it. But my grandfather was sympathetic and decided to keep a part of who she was, just to be fair. They named my mom Leigh. She was perfect then. I had a few pictures stuck in a box somewhere or something from when she was a kid. I look a lot like her. Even I can see it. Same dark hair. Same dark eyes. She was my grandparents' miracle. She was sick from birth, but no one knew it. It was dormant or something. It didn't show up until after she got pregnant. Something about the stress of labour bringing on the disease. Post Partum Dilated Cardiomyopathy. The long and short of it is that she needed a heart transplant. We're Canadian, but money still buys shit here too. She passed up three hearts that I know of. The first one was because she thought she was too weak to survive the surgery. She wanted to get healthier, start working out more. The second time she was sent in a cab to the hospital to receive it when she arrived back home on our doorstep an hour later. The hospital had made some kind of mistake. It was the wrong plasma type or something. Part of me still wonders if she had just been too scared to go through with it. I would have been. The third one had been money related, so that really wasn't her fault. It might have been easier for us if we'd had my father.
He's been comfortably absent from this thing so far, and I really want to keep it that way. This is all new to me. That's just a step too far. I'm not ready yet.
I remember the house buzzing with people but mainly it had all been a blur. I woke her up every morning. That morning was the first time that she didn't wake up. Her skin was purple and my eyes were glazed with tears. I called my neighbor and the next thing I knew there were people everywhere and I was being spoken about like I wasn't there. That was the first time I met my social worker, Karen. I instantly hated her. I still kind of do. But I respect her now. Any person that could put up with all my shit like that woman deserves a medal. I guess you could say that I never really dealt with losing my mom. I never had the chance. From kid with sick mom, I turned into Ward of the State and on the frequent flier plan that foster care. I needed to learn a whole new set of rules quickly if I wanted to survive. I've always been a surviver. I pushed past everything else to learn to adapt. Foster homes would move me and I'd switch schools and get new friends.
It never really mattered where I was put. I always found people. People always found me. It's like animal magnetism, because I attract attention and fun. The hardest part for me was not having anyplace that I really belonged. I had no guidance and no help. I had me and that made me cold. Not to people, just emotionally. I never liked sharing with anyone or talking about my feelings. It made relationships complicated. Well, if complicated means non existent. I met people, friends and lovers, but I didn't make connections. At least, not until I met him. My best friend. The reason for my hate, love and pain. Mark. He was the first person that I managed to hold on to through changing homes and schools and cities. Didn't matter how far the CCAS moved me, he was always there. It wasn't anything sexual with him. It never could be. He's like a brother to me. It would just be weird. But I'm sure he's thought about it once or twice. Sometimes I catch him watching me. Just a little bit, a stolen glance or two. But he's more straight than anything. And I'm not. I've known since I was 13. That was the first time I willingly had sex with another person. It made me hate myself at first, but it got easier.
I just lit another one of those perfectly rolled blunts I've been talking about. And, now that I think about it, I always smoke in the same place; on the couch that sits directly in front of the massive windows in my place. Almost always on my back and almost always looking out the window into the sky. It sounds lame as fuck, I know, but it's just the way things end up. My box that I stash all my shit in is on the table beside the couch and I'm usually there with the laptop anyway. The view makes for a sweet backdrop to my thoughts. And I've also recently discovered that I can't write for shit without music on. It's like I need the extra voices to drown out my self doubt so that I don't end up hesitating before every written word. I really don't know why I'm bothering to write this all down. I mean, I want a record for my own reference, sure. But why now? Maybe I have grown up. Maybe I am ready to deal with this. All of this. Everything I've done.
I moved to a foster home almost immediately after my mom died. No one stepped up to claim me, so I guess I was just the court's problem. I learned really quickly just how much I was worth as a person. Everything has a price.