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She finally had enough. I don’t remember getting in the car but I guess she stuffed me in like a piece of fragile baggage and dropped me off on the steps of 106 PCP Lane. PCP Lane is this row of rehab houses and inpatient crack-house-like facilities specializing in dealing with difficult cases of substance abuse and all other kinds of nutbags. I guess they assume that because it looks like home, it’s more likely to appeal to us psychologically. But who knows. Maybe they’re just cheap fucks who didn’t wanna pay for a real facility.

Right before I go in I stand on the steps and smoke a joint. Then a cigarette. Then another one. Then I go in.

There’s a guy on a beanbag who’s like the security guard? I dunno. I’m so high I’m swaying. Like a drunk. “Hey” he says. He smiles a smirk without looking up at me. Whatever’s on his phone is obviously more important. That face and his voice are patronizing. “Sup” I say as I look around. On my right is a big room with hardwood floors. A bunch of humans in loose clothes sitting on pillows watching TV all leaning their face on palms propped up by elbows. To the left is a room where people sit and talk behind closed some glass doors around a calm woman with perfect posture. She is slowly gesticulating while sitting cross legged on a rug. The rug looks a lot like the one in my mother’s living room. “So… Why are you here?” He asks me. “My mother dropped me on my head.” He finally looks up. “What?” “I said my mother dropped me off.” “Ok…” “She says I need to…” I close my eyes and see a big fat guy playing an accordion while a midget climbs all over him upside down with his head in his crotch. He climbs into the fat man’s pants and pops out the back of his shirt with a big smile and a ta-da face. “Hey! Are you alright bud?” My eyes pop open. I sway and almost lose my balance. “Uh… I…I… I don’t know.” Like some kinda drunk. Jesus I’m tired. That joint took it out of me. But damn I feel good. “You know what we do here right?” He said. “Yeah. You kill all the fun and make em eat vegetables.” I said. “Ok so already we have a problem here. You know what that problem is?” I start chipping away at the wood on his desk with my nasty fingernails. “I dunno.” I say. I turn my head and look at that rug again. Same pattern and everything. I spent a lifetime on that rug. Before all this… “Look. So. What are your expectations for this sobriety thing?” I look back at his face. Crooked eyes. Patronizing smiles. Without a word I turn around, twist the knob and walk out. I smoke a cigarette. Sit down on the concrete porch step. Put my face in my palms and think. Then I cry for a bit. Then the door opens and a bunch of docile dead people walk right past me and into the yard and they all light their cigarettes and start walking around in their own little circles. Not talking to each other. Not even talking to themselves. I wipe the tears away and watch them. Then I get up and go in. “Hey” he says. He’s looking me dead in the face now but my eyes can’t focus on him. I say nothing. Just look left and see that therapy room empty now. I sway. “Can you even stand without keeling over my man? What are you, drunk? High?” I remember fingering her on that rug. Back when ignorance was bliss. Now the unwashed asses of the dead masses grace it with their pussy farts and bull shit. “Do you see the problem with this scene here yet, sir?” He says, a little frustrated with me now. “The problem,” I finally say “is that you bastards stole my mother’s rug.” He lets out a strange giggle. “What?” “And I’m taking it back you dumb mother… ah fuck this shit!” I bumble over to the room and get down on my knees and start rolling up that big son of a bitch rug. I get a third of the way in and I’m out of energy real quick. I remember my mother’s face this morning when she found me passed out in front of the fridge in the kitchen. The fridge door open, 5 plates on the floor and drool everywhere. Christ that was fun. I smile and push that rug but I’m tired. So tired. I try to use my weight. All 130 lbs of it. I can feel him watching me, the heartless bastard. “Stop looking at me Peter! Go make me a sandwich you little faggot. And tell my mom that hairy pussy of hers gave me a splinter.” The funny gives me strength. I finish the task but instead of rolling that thing into a cylinder I turn it into a crunch wrap supreme. I pick that thing up and try to throw it over my shoulder but it all unwraps and I get lost underneath in the dark like a retarded ghost with no eyes. “Hey. Come on, what do you think you’re doing…” I hear him yell from behind his post. “My name is Muck.” I growl from underneath that rug. “I eat chicken bones and roach cocks.” I trip myself and go down hard but the rug folds break my fall. “Alright. I’m calling you security.” “That’s fine. You can’t walk in the rain without an umbrella anyway you fuck.” I get back up on my feet somehow but I still can’t fit through the door. Where the fuck is that sandwich. I’m breathing hard until I run out of air and feel my eyes roll to the back of my head as I pass out.

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