Nice Girls Don’t Use Needles

How a junkie saved my life when I didn’t think it was worth saving

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Courtesy of Philipp von Ostau — WikiCommons

To George, I was a nice girl

I was not an upgrade for George. Not when I stole his dope. Not when I stole his friends’ dope and let him take the blame. Not when I got busted for trying to shoplift diluted vodka from the grocery store so he had to do the shopping. Not when I panhandled and cheated and shook and puked and couldn’t find work. Through it all, he got up early every morning to go drive truck. On pay day, he’d give me something towards one bill and we’d go for groceries. The rest went for heroin and whatever pills he could find for me. He wasn’t even being ironic when he’d say that nice girls don’t use needles. He meant it. To George, I was a nice girl.

Abstaining from using heroin and then rewarding himself…with heroin.

In December of ’92, he’d been abstaining from using heroin to save money but got such a great deal on some white synthetic heroin that he had to get a couple of bags. This is the kind of dope that kills junkies, even those without compromised tolerance levels as George’s was by this point. All the other junkies want to know what the name of that shit is so they can get it. Good shit.

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My apartment was the top one all the way at the back of The Kensington

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Writing because I can’t not write. Twitter: @RemingtonWrite or Email me at: Remington.Write@gmail.com https://remingtonwrite.blogspot.com/

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