Yeah, I know. Hoffman was so last week or whatever.
But I just hate the shit, and what it does to the vulnerable.
This evening I'm driving to pick up GF at work and pass an intersection where a bunch of cars are backed up, honking, behind a truck. In the driver's seat there's a guy stretched out, not moving.
Pull over, run up, the guy's barely breathing, bluing up, works on the console, belt in his lap, still bleeding from the stick. Call 911, yelling, patting the guy. Another fellow shows up, has the sense to shut off the engine (the guy nodded with his foot on the brake, thank Whomever). Cops come, EMS comes. Situation covered. (I assume the guy was bound for a few hours in hospital, then jail).
And I get back in my car and head off to pick up the babe. Depressed.
Someone close to us is (in theory) going in for rehab dance #12 or 20 or whatever in the last ten years. I always hope, but experience does not give much reason for it. Oh, he's all contrite right now. "I'm so bad. What's wrong with me?" Going by past experience, in two weeks clean, he'll be talking about how special and brilliant he is and why can't people just support his special brilliance?
I'm a gruff and largely cold person, I suppose, so I tend to dismiss the whinings of special, brilliant, misunderstood junkies, but I know it's not really their fault so much. The stuff is just too good at what it does. Express lane to things not mattering so much. Why do you think they call it dopamine?
And I guess I'm tired of having to pretend to believe the stories, the endless hustles. "I need cabfare to see my auntie in the hospital." "I had to hock my tools to pay car insurance and I lost the money and they're going to impound my car."
And, endlessly, "I've changed."
I know individuals can't do much about their problem, that the receptor rewiring that can happen in one dance is beyond the power of most to change.
I suppose I just wish there was someone, something, that I could be angry with. It all just seems such a waste.