sobriety and subway

i don't have much money. i never have. nor do i have much luck with money. i am always being ripped off and cheated and just plain stolen from, and i'm so sick of it. i never had an easy chance. the other day, my mother gave me a little money. i went out and bought myself a subway sandwich, the way i like it, that i haven't gotten to have in a long long time. i also bought grandma a salad for which she didn't get her money's worth because she eats like an eighty year old bird. i like my subway sandwich made as a double meat, but the first 'meat' is the subway club, and the second 'meat' is the philly cheesesteak, together on one sandwich. it's good. usually costs me about fifteen bucks. it's not your 'five dollar footlong'. i brought it home, and was only able to eat half of it, because thanks to my drug addict uncle ripping me off, i'm going sober most of this month, and i cannot eat without my pot, because of all the trauma my body has been thru recently, which i couldn't pay my family to sympathize for. literally. i've tried. i offered once to pay them to act like they give a fuck about me. my mother rudely said no, and made it sound insulting for me to ask such a thing. but i wasted half of my special fifteen dollar sandwich, simply because i can't eat it. the rest of the money that my mother gave me was for my monthly supply of regular pot. which was nice of her. but the fact that i have no dealer to buy from. i wish i could make it legal as soon as possible, i hate feeling like a drug addict scumbag like my uncle, who smoked crack in our motel room for his birthday, which traumatized my wife and i, but i guess that's okay. at least my mother is somewhat displeased with my uncle, and wants him out of the house, but i don't see anything getting any better anytime soon. at least you can let this be an advocation for medicinal marijuana, which my uncle doesn't even understand that term, cause he's smoked the definition out of his head with too much crack. but i should be treated like a drug addict just like him, when i am nuthing like him. except in the eyes of my family, who constantly disrespect my namechange, and call me 'fred' all the time, as well as fred himself calling me 'jamal' and 'damone' all the time, like it's cool. now, i am a white boy, i have white skin, but what they do not know, is that if my mother was the black sheep of the family, i'm the black fuckin' hole. i do not exist, and i can prove that, just ask my family where i am. i'm so dark, you have to be blind to see me. i've disappeared into the black hole of poverty and neglect. and no one cares. but right now, that bullshyt doesn't matter. i just wish i could smoke some pot so i could eat something, and i really wish my sandwich was still good. i hate my fucking life, i hate this world, i hate my family, my family hates me, my wife hates me, and i hate myself for what i did to her. i want to die for the way i treated her. i pushed her away, and i never wanted to. you tell me what fucking choice i've had this whole time, over this past two years of my life being mercilessly destroyed by irresponsible people who don't even know they're hurting people. my life is over, my heart is dead, it can no longer be in love, so now my wrist is falling in love with that knife. i'll end this with a line from one of my old poems. 'hey, jesus, would you drop your healing blood, from your wrists down onto me'. i might read my poem wristblood later. and i'd also like to offer this opinion that no one would ever be brave enuph to agree with. but i think that the end of one's life should never be anyone's decision but their own. fuck you, murderers.