"Recalling a broken series of unremarkable events."

                                   I managed to set one semi-conscious foot in front of the other for quite a period of time; finding myself abruptly degraded in a too familiar setting;  four walled institutional boundaries. These patients stories are boring; and I do not care for them one bit. Everyone wrapped up in their own personal tragedy of drug abuse, jail and desperation. I don't even like the staff or the so-called therapists.
                                 People tend to run away from their own problems together. Mother's cabinet aroma; recalling fondly a fine wood-scented varnish. My friend: a cutter who romanticised past-gone relationships, I love her to death, most of the time she wishes she was. I met her upon rehab-playing fields; even looked her up on the outside. Phoned her from a late-afternoon rural intersection. A fluorescent orange glow descended down upon the slumbering residential streets. Garbage alley trash still had that firm distinct putrid odor of the populated city (forty miles or so north of it though). Called my friend at home on a drunken Tuesday; going through old high-school love scribblings: some received, some never sent. We agreed to meet at a suburban pizzeria right off route 309 at 6p.m., the strip-mall included a Rite-Aid pharmacy that came in handy prior to our engagement.
                              The pharmacist on this particular day was a purebred home-schooled middle-aged Asian American male with genuine mannerisms and restraint hostility in his narrow eyes. He warned me thoroughly about the third refill of a three-month old Xanax script. He said that my dosage was the maximum legally allowed, I said I already know this and don't care. He then said I would need a new prescription If I needed more Xanax in the future. I said I already know this and don't care.
                             Late-morning, lost and confused. What hospital is this? Why? and how bizarre? I set myself up for failure again. There are no underlying themes or issues to my madness, nor any past trauma I can hold accountable. Just further additions to my chaotic self proclaimed memoirs. She was the type of girl that I would date If I had courage. She being wild-eyed, promiscuous, Italian-looking, dark featured-she pierced her clitoris once and showed me in the local Starbucks bathroom, I felt cool and involved; like I belonged or fit-in. I was speeding pretty heavily on government issued amphetamines at the time though. For a couple years we'd meet at the corner barroom, she'd sell me pills; or we'd swap one thing for another-never sex. Although I do recall her adamantly telling me about how she used to be a  successful escort in Manhattan; and how she was happy then and missed the lifestyle.
                             During this time I resided in a one-room efficiency on 8th and Valley Forge just a few blocks east from the Main St. 7-11. The police only grew somewhat aware of our operation towards the end of our partnership; by this time it was too late for them to proceed any further investigation. Winter crept in early that wind-swept year; the yard on the prison outskirts of Montgomeryville PA:  The medical ward, boredom has a natural way of presenting its victim with evil actions. That is why currently, I teach myself that there are not enough hours in a day to go back to my old ways.