Debby and I were now unofficially living together.
She often disappeared, sometimes for days at a time. At first I used to question her. But she always shut me down, and I soon realized I would have to accept this.
No doubt she was off nodding with her junked up punk friends.
She was deep into the hardcore heroin lifestyle. I was a drug dilettante at best. If I did indulge with her, I usually snorted it.
I hated that bruised inner arm look that junkies sported; always having to wear long sleeves, even in the summer.
Of course, years later, I would stop caring about those bruises – unless they signified a collapsed vein and a hunt for a new needle target on my body.
I really loved working on 51st street. This group of women became my little dysfunctional posse. It only took me a week before it hit me like Ike…
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