I’m more tired than Ron Jeremy after the tenth take. In my rental car. Back from New Jersey. Off the bridge, coming down to the West Side Highway. I pull over to the right. There’s a horn. Blast. BLAST! BLAAAAAAAAST! Some smarmy guy in a Mercedes SUV. He thinks I cut him off. Maybe I did. Sorry.
It was around six in the morning and I was holding the steering wheel as the drummer from my old band shoveled into a dime bag of mostly cut cocaine bought an hour earlier in some ratty trailer park off Fort Myers Beach.
I get a Depo-Provera injection every three months that dries up my uterus like a raisin in the sun.