Drugs in the heartland

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I drift into consciousness slowly, timidly, so as not to anger my mind further. Then, I roll out of bed and fish out my kit. It was a long party last night, strange and full of demons reveling in hedonism. The girl I spoke with, a year younger than I and pregant, she spoke between puffs off a cigarette and pulls off a beer. She told me about her misguided views and opinions about her life, all lies and bullshit. Her life will be hell and I know it. I know the "man" who got her pregnant, he makes me look like a fucking honor student.
As I chop up my line and prepare for the day, I reflect on the absurdity of my chosen medication. Next, I shrug away my fears and inhibitions and I take the line. Like a blast of fire in my mind, soon the thoughts and images come too fast to be dealt with.
I remember that my crank-head friend Steve wants a ride to pick up his check. I pull on some clothes, whatever won't stick to the wall, and I head out the door. I'm forced to squint as I enter the bright daylight but I embrace the light, the beauty. I'm thankful to be living in a place where so much beauty still exists amidst the ever-increasing tide of human shit.
I turn the key and, after a few uncertain moments and a few choice words, my car starts up. I light up a Marlboro and roll down the window to let in fresh air; a conflict in interests which I am not unaware of.
I take in the sights of my small town, a place everyone is just passing through. Indiana, the cross-road of America, one big fucking pit-stop and my home.

This work of fiction is dedicated to the memory of Hunter S. Tompson