t his is my one lucid moment as i've managed to get my hands on a G of down despite being broke and soon to be homeless (until I move back to the forest). i've been fighting hobos for bottles and cans a lot these days, walking around trying not to shit my pants for the withdrawals while scav'ing cigarette butts to roll and smoke, and of course, for cans; of which, over a months time, may equal about 2 Q's (or $60). the hobos downtown are very territorial about bottle rights, but like i told one guy tonight, "fuck you." the hobos where i live are mostly old and decrepit, and though walking in my semi-state is sheer agony, i am much younger, and thereby faster and meaner than they are, able to boost by them and claim the prize of aluminum or the much coveted glass bottles - some, the milk ones, being worth a whole dollar. my gf has very politely kicked me out for not paying rent and basically being a lethargic addict. while i'm very unhappy to be leaving her, i am beyond happy to be finally free of this god forsaken chink town called vancouver, bc. i can't wait to go back home, to the woods - to guns - to motorbikes- to demon worship in the woods. i've nearly beat a man in my apartment, though entirely strung out, stinking like BO and some weird man-produced chemical by-product of the strain of severity, of which i've taken note that animals do not like --- they possibly do not trust a creature of my smell. i think i reek of panic and impending danger to them... just as i do to girls riding next to me on the bus. i have become the chemical bi-polar soldier. today i return to sobriety once more, not by choice but by circumstance and then, into some god forsaken abyss, the lip of which is my couch in my gf's apartment, and from the double-stuffed, 6-foot long, normally comfy ledge, i suppose i'll fall back down that crap-lined rabbit hole into sober oblivion yet again. my only fucking recourse is to shower. lots of showers. to lay down on, or ideally next to, strength and energy dictating, stacks of old and food encrusted pots and pans, knives and bloody cutting boards, and to turn the shower up as hot as i can stand and lay there soaking until my energy is restored enough to crawl into bed and black out for that luscious, and so precious, 15 minutes-if-lucky bit of abandon called 'rare sleep,' for again, there will be none for days, maybe a week. and in that week and few days time, comes next an awful move, back to my dad's place, a failure of failures, to begin anew, sober and dispassionate. THE MAYANS HAD BETTER BE RIGHT.