Filthy gray sweatshirt, reeking of body odor and cigarettes; hang, hang all limp and lousy on shoulders like the back of the kitchen chair of a wasted day. Wasted day and a wasted lip, dangle that cigarette and stare – stare as only a lip could as it hangs all limp and open and moist and chapped and shaking, quivering. The cigarette shakes the lip. The cigarette, like a curb feeler for the lip, bounces when the filthy sweatshirt-wearer shucks that crap about a day not wasted, about a life so full, about a person in the prime of life. The prime of life not wasted and filthy with meth and with cigarettes and with sugared sodas that fuel the meth-wasted day. A filthy, filthy, f**king filthy day with filthy eyes and filthy lips and filthy meth-wasted days that look out over the filthy, wasted asphalt.
“Happy holidays,” says the filthy set of lips, empty and filthy and as wishing and as wanting and as weaned, weaned, weaned from any hope that something other than a f**king happy holiday could offer.
“You got a couple a' bucks I can have? I gotta' get a bus.”