As I sit here in my dingy bedroom at the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ Center for Sober Living and Bible Study, celebrating my 51st birthday with a bottle of Thunderbird and a day-old roast beef sandwich that I retrieved from a local deli’s dumpster, I can’t help but reflect on just how far my life has fallen.
My vast wealth? Gone. Mansion? Gone. Yacht? Gone. OxyContin? Gone. Boner pills? Gone. Dignity? Fuck you for asking. In fact, the only remnant of my former life that still remains is my financial support of the prostitution industry. Of course, where I once shopped exclusively in the $1,000/hour class and up, I now gladly settle for $10 handjobs from crazy-eyed crack whores with more warts than teeth. Ah, the humanity.
But enough of this. I’m headed down to the track with my roommate and former dealer, Skynyrd Dave, who claims he has a hot tip on a pony. We have to stop at the plasma bank first in order to scrounge up enough cash to place our bets, but I feel confident that we’re going to win big by the end of the day. Because if I didn’t believe that, the only thing I’d be spending money on is a Saturday night special and one bullet for the chamber. Selah.