Jason Smith

“You must listen me,” he said, his refusal to use prepositions starting to bug me. “Please?” “Look man, I told you. I-DON’T-HAVE-MONEY-FOR-YOU. Niente. Nada.

I began devising a plan.

“Truth.” That’s a very relative term when drugs are involved.

I realize that “drug addicted high school teacher” sounds scary, but trust me, if you saw my paycheck you’d know that they got exactly what they paid for.

As a guy I’d always assumed having a female stalk me would be kind of cool. Flattering, in a non-threatening kind of way. You know, good for my self esteem, self-confidence increasing with each uninvited appearance. Each knock on the window at 2 o’clock in the morning giving me butterflies of enhanced ego, insecurities just pat-pat-pattering their wings as they disappeared, flying off into the Italian night.

I was wrong.

Naloxone is no joke. I’m here to tell you from experience, that sh*t hurts.

It’s our anniversary. Remember 12–12–12?

I. Complete. You.

I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to hurt like I hurt. I wanted someone to share this feeling with.

How fitting. Dream: dashed.

Big surprise. Another demonstration in Piazza Duomo.

From his top bunk I could feel him trying to climb in and out of his non-existent sheets. They don’t give you sheets in jail, the only real acceptable place where an adult can call a bunk-bed home.