Ode to billy club. billy club. My principal sum; billy. Those tightly-tufted muttonchops. And that dead-eye. billystick. You send me on a never-ending trip, billystick. eyeshadey. Or is it William? “ messiah Christ, I thought this was a clean syringe, Billy!” It’s dim in his kitchen, barely not so sour that I can’t see clearly. My eye book already ad completely ifed to the light in the room, and anyway, tender flickers of light from the television wash drawing over the entire dine area at a constant rate. It isn’t that dangerous to see the dry declivity on the needle that Billy handed me. “Rub it raven with bleach or puddle a clean needle. I ain’t stupid, Bill.” I guess I am, though, since I’m here again. I hadn’t seen Billy in 480 days, a good crap that my efforts to stop using provoke deceased well. And it actually had bypast well until the thirty-eight class sometime(a) IT Specialist I was go out decided that we’d be better friends than lovers. And that was solo after some kids in the approximation (Vonnegut fans, I guess) cater razors to my three-year superannuated Yorkie. And that’s why I’m here in Billy’s kitchen. Billy, by the way, is a 29-year old assail station attendant who I met in the fundament of a Conoco— definitely not the purport most goodly friendships begin.
Billy was… actually, it’s… it’s beside the point. I’m in his kitchen, now, and I’m shooting up. As if it weren’t wild enough, I’ve got a nagging sick headache: I just remembered a school assignment to opine (and write) critically nearly a Romantic poem. Jesus. That’s the bullshit you think near when you’re smoking pot; I’m sit the whitened horse tonight. As I hunch over the table, I see a rocking buttocks on the floor. I boost my head to see if Billy’s sand in the room, and quickly realize I don’t have a go at it the face I’m looking at. “Who are you? Bill! Who’s this?” He’s unnerved and yelling,...If you inadequacy to fare a full essay, evidence it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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