A 17 year old day dream

My nose feels like it's running. I remember standing in my mother's room talking to her, my left side facing her. I felt something sliding down my face, it was heavy. She walked into the bathroom after an enternity and I ran into my room. I looked at myself and saw a white streak running down from my nose to the top of my lip. Surprise was my only emotion. How could she not have noticed? I really believe that sometimes they would try and ignore my behavior.

I remember standing in the kitchen spinning the greatest lie of my life. She was standing at the stove cooking and I was walking around her. My fingers were turning something, turning it. Rotating it. Rotating it. During a pause I looked at what my two fingers had been absentmindedly spinning. A gray needle cap was in my fingers. I quickly stuffed it in my pocket.

How do other people not see the signs? If I saw that I would say something. I wonder what is going on in other people's minds. I hate pills sometimes. I've been taking hydrocodone for months and, although I shouldn't be complaining, I'm going to. You can't shoot them, you can't snort them, so you have to swallow them. There is nothing about swallowing things that I like. With a shot there is preparation, there is the needle, things which I enjoy. Snorting something even has preparation, and then the act. There is no climax to swallowing a pill, it goes down and then you wait. I sit at my computer and flip through Gledwood's blog, then Melody's blog, I move on to Michelle's blog, or Kelly's blog. I continue to flip through these things until it hits me and then I will sit and write. Although I enjoy how it feels I long for the preparation, that feeling that your actions really matter and are leading up to a goal. I want a goal.

I was digging through my kit (not really digging, I kinda took everything out and then put what I didn't want back). I decided to take a Flexeril, hoping that it would help me sleep tonight. I decided, as you sometimes do, to rail it (which I do any chance that I get). Horrible idea. I snorted a little of the powder and my thought was, "Oh, damn, now my eyes are watering." It's funny, but I didn't cry like I would have in the past, my only reaction was kind of a lackluster annoyance. I was annoyed because it was a waste of a perfectly good pill, but beyond that I didn't really care very much. At the moment the opiates in my system and the Flexeril have formed a tag-team and are making me almost close my eyes. It really has kicked in pretty well, which is a good thing. I was thinking about my kit, I can itemize it right now, even though tonight was the first time I've looked in it since spring. It contains: two needles, an alcohol pad, a few peices of cotton, a Bic lighter with almost no fluid, an old fashioned lighter which needs more fluid, a mirror, a dollar bill, an extra needle cap, and an empty bag of weed with a stem in it. The other day when I was in Lauren's car she pulled out her "kit." Her using the term was kinda weird to me, and I thought, "That's not a kit. Who did you learn that label from?" I know it sounds weird, but my first thought was, "I call it a kit because that's what every junky in reading/life has called it, but you don't read/know any of these people. What the fuck?" I guess I've pulled out my kit in front of her, in fact, I've probably called it my kit. I changed the bag it was in after she recognized it one day. I've been thinking a lot today. I wrote this giant post, which I'm going to post before this one. I'm going to label each section of that one, because it really is massive. Haha I had too much time to think to night.