It started in College when one of my dear friends came knocking on my door at 4 am looking for just a spoon of jelly or peanut butter if I didn't have jelly. He was shirtless and was wearing a pair of Old Skool "Lipp Service" Jeans that said "fuck" all over them. He had beautiful black hair down to the middle of his back and crystal blue eyes. How could I say no? I couldn't. He came in and I opened the fridge and pulled out my beloved jar of Goober Grape. "Is both ok?" He smiled and took a spoonfull. "You're the best,Myssi".
At that time I all ready knew he was a junkie. I always opened my door to him. His girlfriend, whom we called Olive Oil( she looked just like her), hated me...I didn't much care for her. She had the money and would often punish him by not sharing their need. By the end of my second year of school I was the silent care giver for him. He would show up in tears, begging me to take him to the hospital when the Methadone Clinic was closed, Or looking so gaunt I would beg him to eat...always pulling out my jar of Goober Grape. He always came over when I was alone, which was often. My boyfriend at the time was older and in a shitty band...he had many girls on the side and I just ignored it. My friend, on his good days, would smile at me and ask,"What are you doing?" "You are so smart and you are here, in shithole Gainesville, taking care of an asshole who could care less about you and a junkie who is probably gonna die."
If I had known that care taking would be in my true future it would have made sense. But I didn't know that. I just knew that I loved his pale white skin and how he came to me when he needed peace. We never shared anything except Goober Grape, warm blankets and nights of listening to the Stranglers, but for me it was a life long lesson on the beautiful devils of heroin.
I left Gainesville to escape my own devils. I don't really know what happened to my friend. He left G-ville before I did. With a note on my fridge and a fresh jar of Goober Grape, "Don't save this for me, I won't need it. Thanks xoxo" . I saved that note for a long time. I never buy Goober Grape anymore.
I moved all over the country; New Orleans, Miami, Portland, Seattle, and Atlanta and could pick out even the cleanest of the Junkies. I can smell them. I don't do drugs anymore. I escaped the devils that chased me, removed myself from the people and can now think back nicely about it. When I see a heroin junkie, I feel for them...I really do.
This brings me to my love for Scott Weiland. The perfect look in all junkism.