September 6th, 2008

Stoop bucked some kid $1,400 bucks and a gun. The kid's name is Stevie Maddox.

I hear Stevie is looking for me. Everyone knows that Stoop and I always do shit together. I guess he thinks I was the one who picked him up.

When I first got clean, I think about a week in, my mom let me borrow her car to go to the gym. I drove a mile out of our gated community, the windows down, happy to be clean, music playing. I looked over to a nearby canal. I saw a familiar truck and a motorcycle cruiser parked next to it. They were pulled over on the grass, fishing. I made eye contact with one of them. It was one of the kids that set me up to get jumped.

I sped up, looked in my rear view and saw them throw their fishing reels on the ground and start chasing me. The motorcycle and truck kept following me, one of them sticking their head out the window to talk shit. I floored it and ran a few stop signs and stop lights. I started panicking. I threw all I could find out my window at the guy on the motorcycle. CDs, change, some of my moms folders for work. Fucking itching, I thought about pulling over and throwing down, I thought about ramming the guy on the bike off the road. We get into a chase for a while, and I figure I could just let the motorcycle get close behind me and then slam on my brakes. He might die, I think to myself. Sounds awesome at first but then I think “Yeah, then I gotta go to court and he might survive and his friend is going to try to blame it on me and then my dad is going to be even more pissed I fucked up the car.”

So I speed in and out of cars, running red lights, realizing how slow the C-Class really is. I finally lose them and turn into my neighborhood. I step into the house and give my mom the keys back. She takes them back with surprise and asks, “what happened with the gym?” I walk towards my room and say, “not going, changed my mind,” slamming my door.

I stay in my room, bored. The part that really pissed me off was that these are the same kids that beat the shit out of me a few weeks before I got clean. Like, what else do you want? Fucking faggots.

I asked around to see who this kid Stevie Maddox is, I called my boy Frank Miller.

“Yo, who the fuck is Stevie Maddox and why is everyone telling me he’s going to kill me.”

Frank laughed, “Stevie is a fucking duck, but a lot of ducks can do some gangster shit.”

Whatever. I’m not scared, only I can’t catch another charge.

Just sucks cause I really didn’t rob anyone this time.

…

She wrote me back! This is what she said:

“While you were in La-La Land doing drugs every day, you did fucked up shit to me for years… so I have every reason to hate you.”

I feel like using.

I should have never texted her. It’s like a record playing in my head, over and over again. At times, I catch myself looking in the mirror and imagine blowing my head off, little skull fragments bouncing off the sliding glass down, blood painted across.

“La-La Land,”

“La-La Land,”

Fucking “La-La Land.”

She said I WAS IN LA-LA LAND… I was a drug addict! I was addicted to crack and Oxy!