I wish that I didn't have to see your rotten, junkie faces every single day. I have been off dope for a year now, and every time I walk to the store you are there. On the phone in front of Jack in the Box, sneering at me, saying things like, "Why don't you get off your high horse, you bitch!" Well, guess what? No one put you on the street. You did it, and you smell bad too--like stinky sweat, poison, and stale cigarettes. Sometimes I literally nearly throw up when I see you; I worked harder than I ever have in my life to do this, and some days I feel like I have no skin when I walk down the street. Like I'm just a walking piece of shit. I just want to escape, to not feel anything for once. And then I see you with your scabby, bruised, pus-leaking arms as you walk your baby down the street. The poor thing has sweaty, matted hair and is whimpering. But you don't notice because you are too busy trying to spot your dealer on the other side of the street. Those are the times when I nearly have to run home. Did you hear that? A home. And a job. I am glad you think that I don't have any idea what it's like for you. Because I do, and I am so fucking glad.--Anonymous