Ian
Ian is dead. He was another in a long string of dead friends. The list goes on and on. He was homeless, essentially couch surfing in Cincinnati when I met him. He was around 5'9". He had short hair, a peach fuzz semi mustache. I have doubts he ever needed to shave. Ian would get fucked up and cry. Not cry like a little bitch like woe is me but cry a guttural cry like a wounded animal. My apartment was full of a string of misfits but he held a special place in my heart. He was one of those street kids who never expected anything but never had anything either. He had no real hustle. His piercing blue eyes would stop any self respecting punk rock girl dead in their tracks. At the time I was falling into the abyss of my own addiction. I still barely had a job and an apartment so I had a little something to share. I hated getting loaded with him. Why are you crying? Fuck! You are messing up my high. I came home one day. I had a stand up mirror that someone had shattered. Ian had...