There was a boy named Conor.
His parents were together, well, amazingly, considering the fact they were junkies.
Conor tasted Valium since he was a little boy.
He smoked and took drugs on the regular basis, his arm usually bruised with all the IV shots.
He stayed in a one room apartment. He does not have a girlfriend. He does not have sex.
He has no friends. Except those that he snorts coke with. But then again, they’re not really his friends.
Conor is weak. In many ways. His life? He has no life.
He sits in the gutter smoking one day after being high. In broad daylight.
A man comes along. He askes Conor for a light. Conor said he doesn’t have a light.
The man takes the cigarette from Conor’s mouth and says,
“Ya fuckin’ have no light but ya fukin’ smoking?”
Before Conor could reply, the man takes out his semi-automatic and shoots Conor in his head.
The police knocks on Conor’s door. His parents, albeit drunk, felt remorseful but think that they had no part to play in this.
Conor sits on his bed. Stoned. His eyes stare blankly at nothing…. Like his future – nothing.
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Just a fictitious story that is running through my head. I’m smoking again!
Aw crap, no one has to care.
