The Big Bag Of Heroin In My Cupboard

• 6 Dollar Thursday
• 25 Dollar Friday
• Plasma Money Snafu
• No Kratom Friday Night

Aged 10 years in 2 days...

I guess it was a good thing that I had $1.90 in my pocket and an all day bus pass good until 2:36 AM the next morning when I went to the Octapharma plasma place.

I got to the bus stop across from Wal-Mart right as the next bus was coming, and so I decided to hop on it and skip my usual foray into that store, where I usually get a couple bananas and other things to replenish my plasma, and save money on Harold's cat food.

The money for my donation is usually on the plastic card by the time I get to the register.

This time, my balance was given as "minus 94 cents" all the way up until the time I got off the bus on Canal Street on this side of the river, and when I checked again outside Family Dollar, where I was hoping to get cat food, and still when I was back at the apartment.

Bobby, my weed guy, had been phoning me throughout the day, telling me about a book that he had gotten, which was a "Yes, you CAN learn to read music," type of publication, an "every good boy deserves fudge," book, if you will. He wanted to show it to me.

I went to his place, thinking that he would at least pass me a bowl to take a hit off of while showing me the book. I had $1.90 total.

It was aggravating to have been drained and weakened with nothing to show for it. I could have bought cat food and then gotten cash back to be able to buy a 5 dollar bud to put in my pipe as I was tuning up at the Lilly Pad.

"I'm on camera being stabbed and drained, plus, if they had put the money on the card then there would have to be records of my having spent it on certain things at certain stores, and I'm going to eventually get it; so why can't I just relax and think of it as money that I have in the bank?" I said to Bobby. I felt the all-too-familiar feeling of going out to busk under pressure to make something or have nothing. Never mind get a creatine monohydrate drink and a shot of kratom the next day.

The Monkey Wrench

It was easy for me to guess what could have caused the problem. I had asked a question.

The plasma selling process is so "automated," with the employees having just resigned themselves to the fact that their job entails certain repetitive actions, that can't be skirted, so they function like robots. They might even ask "How are you doing today, Daniel," before asking: "Name?" as they are putting me in one of the recliners.

This is a good thing, for the fact that proles like: "then you take this and put it here, undo this and put it here, then, with your right hand you pick this up, making sure it doesn't touch your left hand, tape this down, like so...etc." means that every donor gets a fresh, sterile needle and no oxygen bubbles in their veins, etc.

It also had meant that I had gotten the money put on my card every time, usually before I had made it to the register at Wal-Mart.

But this time, I threw a monkey wrench into the machine by asking the guy that screened me which donation this was for me this month.

The little poster showing the "bonus" amounts was hung to my right, as the guy was taking my blood pressure, temperature etc., and drew my attention.

He told me that this was to be my third donation.
I knew that couldn't be right. I could remember at least 4 of them.

"I've got it right here in front of me, this will be your third one..." said the light skinned black man who strongly resembles a guy who walks back and forth by me on Bourbon Street about every night.

I decided that I would check "my records" (i.e. this blog) to try to match that up with what they had.

But then, the monkey wrench:

As I was being drained, I asked the lady who usually wears a blue coat -a mismatch with the rest of the white coat wearing staff that denotes that she is above them- if there was a way that she could check to see which visit I was on.

The lady who usually wears the blue scrubs came back about 15 minutes later and said: "This is your 5th visit..."

"OK, thanks..."

This meant that I was in line for a "bonus" of 20 dollars upon my next visit, but had the effect of seemingly not letting me get paid.

No Cigar

One of a few things might have happened.

The lady who usually wears the blue scrubs may have taken my paperwork with her into the office so she could punch my numbers in; and then never returned it to where it would be automatically picked up by the lady who pays everyone (who hasn't asked a question).

Or, the light skinned black guy who strongly resembles a guy who walks back and forth almost every night on Bourbon Street, might have purposely messed me up, because I had gone over his head in consulting the lady who usually wears the blue scrubs, who had asked me: "Who told you that?!?" in a manner that resonated like someone who is above everyone else. And I had ratting him out: "the guy who screened me."

"We'll see about that bonus; he ain't gonna get shit!," he might have said to himself as he went to a computer page and clicked on "paid already," or something.

I got back to the apartment feeling drained, weak, dehydrated, and thought about not going out to busk in such condition.
Then I kind of told myself that I had to; or I risked being flat broke the next day. No creatine drink, no kratom, no cat food, no cigar (in lieu of a pack of cigarettes) and no bus pass to ride out the next (Saturday) night.

So, I went out and made 25 dollars playing for a couple hours.


It was only a 20 dollar bill from a lady who had held it up to show me before putting it in my basket, that spared me from having a second consecutive 6 dollar night.

Bad Diet

"10 years older over the course of 2 days..."

Tim, my caseworker had come by Friday morning and given me 3 bags of frozen blueberries, about 15 pounds of the suckers.

I bought a box of Raisin Bran on sale for $1.88 at Walgreen's, intending to turn it into raisin and blueberry bran, which I did when I got home. But, I wound up eating the whole box of it, and adding a lot of brown sugar to it.

Looking in the mirror this (Saturday) afternoon after I had slept off the meal, but still woken up feeling sleepy, it looked like I had aged 10 years, with large bags under each of my eyes.

I guess the fact that I had gone sugar free for something like the past 30 years really has been one of the keys to my appearing younger than I am, as all it has taken is this recent binge to make me appear frighteningly older over the space of just a couple days.

I had bought the bag of brown sugar -one of the first in my life- a couple days ago, and it has become like a bag of heroin sitting in my cupboard.


I was telling myself that I should eat baked fish with steamed broccoli when I got home; but the Raisin Bran was in my backpack, and I was fantasizing about heaping tablespoons full of brown sugar as I headed home.


So, what can I do to make thing better and put myself back on the right track?

I can fold up this laptop now (9:02 PM) and make it to the Lilly Pad by 10:30 PM at the latest; play for as long as the rain holds off against 50% odds; and then have baked fish with steamed broccoli when I get home.

Tomorrow the Saints are playing at the Superdome. I could finally make it there to play outside, the first time this year. The plasma money will eventually come, and I might find myself waking up Monday morning with enough money so I can make the trip to the big pawn shops to get the auger and the saw in order to hack into the abandoned rectory and record vocals over all the guitar stuff that I have been patiently recording waiting to sing on top of.