I met Dr. Squires in the spring of ’94. First as a client, then as a patient. At the beginning we didn’t talk about much of anything. I don’t know why I kept seeing him, to be honest. But sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Even if you’re just talking shit. He told me the drug thing was a cry for help. Maybe he’s right. I am Luke Shapiro. I’m a drug dealer.
Hear my cry. My occupation takes me to exotic places like Brooklyn and Queens. Now, I like it most in the summer when no one’s around. Just me, the sweaty girls in their short skirts with their breasts and their panties, which I like to see when I can see them. I like fly ladies. I like tank tops. I like short skirts. I like my impure thoughts, which go a little something like this.
I hate high school so I’m alone a lot. Which is fine by me. Sometimes it gets lonely, I guess. But I don’t need high school friends. One week they’re listening to Kris Kross, the next, they’re listening to Pearl Jam. I’m not like that. I’m loyal. I mean, I still listen to cassettes. But tomorrow my life changes. Tomorrow I graduate.
And then I go to my safety school. And then I get older. And then I die.