It's not the horrible things that bother me so much. Not the soap-operatic stuff you see in celebrity Hollywood or Memoires of a Dream. Goddamn! That brother's arm is all gangrene and rotting off around the needle as he shoots into it digging and digging for a vein. And digging. Gruesome enough for ya? While I have nothing that tops that, I have my share of life-shattering events. My life; and the lives of anyone caught in my wake. Yeah, those suck, but they don't keep me up at night.

I used to let a fat girl cuddle with me if, and only if, she got me high first. Like, really, really high. Sure, it's a little funny when you read it as a one-liner (ok, really funny). But humor requires the kind of impersonal experience in which you were just able to enjoy that.

Let me make it personal.

Skinny was a close friend of mine. What? Oh yeah yeah, we're calling her skinny now. Both because it's nicer but also because she's had major liposuction done since then. Skinny was a young girl; cute and sweet in a way that really skinny people would find impossible to achieve. She made it clear (painfully) at times that she dug me. My brush-offs only emboldened her. So, when she writes about the past she can remember getting me wasted to take full advantage of me. Drunken me only escaped taken half advantage of. See? It bothers me still if I can end a sentence with a preposition like that.

We became friends in this weird fashion. Her always trying to sex me up and me teasing her right back. She never went full-blown crazy chick Fellas. Am I right? huh? huh?.

Nothing much would come of it, except when I learn that you can get drugs through other forms of payment than money! Wow! My shame sinks to new lows. Let me just swish away that pesky little thought buzzing in your head. No, I did not become a male prostitute. Not a prostitute like the dorky cowboy midnight guy, and definitely not like the gay rollerskating variety from Reno 911.

But I guess you're a whore when you trade your self for money. Drugs. Whatever. I was a thief too.

Again, it's not the more common thefts from strangers and other druggies that bother me. It's the rare occasion that I dipped into a friend's purse. Stole her checks. Forged her signature. Also, she was putting me up for a time. After I became homeless, she was the friend that came to my rescue. She was the one that cared, and in fact helped me get through a time of great desperation.

I remain friends with her to this day. She knows everything and every way I did her wrong, but for some strange reason (goodness? love?) she forgave me. She doesn't pursue her money back. Doesn't barb me with stories of the many pathetic instances I got loaded and nearly died or hurt someone. She's happy to hear that I am doing well. She's happy that I'm sober.

So Skinny, I want you to know that I'm sorry. If I haven't said it enough, or if you never realized that I meant it, I want you to know I remember it all. And in that knowledge I can truly say I'm sorry.