Memories

Working in a 24 hour gas station/automotive shop in a meth/crack neighborhood of a big, stabby, Albertan city taught me many things. Street smarts, how to stand up to bullies, and sketchy-as-fuck junkie management. All very useful skills.

Mostly it taught me that all those stories in Penthouse Letters are very possibly true. All very possible; except for the part where the participants are hot or sexy.

If I could show you the things I’ve seen, you too would yearn for mind bleach. No beauty here. Only stale beer sweat and lesions. Impulse bought dollar store toys for neglected children forgotten in the gas station shitter along with the used needles. A woman with her halter top stretched tight over pregnant belly, passed out drunk in the gutter; dumped there out of a rusted pickup truck.

Ah, memories.

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