Any time I’ve been out on the street in the grips of active addiction, my life revolved around stealing cans of compressed air duster and huffing it to escape from myself. It wasn’t that inhalants were my drug of choice, per se, it was just that they were easily shoplifted from different stores all around the city. A lot of this blog is about those dark times, so I suppose I’ll link something that illustrates that. The stores where I got the most cans were always Target. On my more successful days, I would huff over ten cans.
Yesterday, I started my first job in over 3 years, working for a 3rd-party company that sells cell phones… in Target, of all places. It was so weird. Here I was being shown their back rooms, given credentials to use their registers, and being introduced to all the red-shirted employees, as if I wasn’t who I used to be. I don’t know how life works like this. It’s like they don’t know who I am, because apparently they don’t.
On Friday I’m training in the store that running from the Target security led me out to the road where I got hit by a briskly traveling white Honda (or Toyota) . I flew up in the air, landed on the pavement, and ran off to the bus to avoid ending up in the hospital… and now I’m going to be drinking a Red Bull in their break room.
https://medium.com/@evr0ck17/composition-book-part-two-1febb1e82f93
I suppose it’s foolish to try to make sense of this life, and you just have to go with it.
