I went to the movies this weekend (Ghostbusters — I liked it, but not as much as I hoped I would). Anyway, I ordered a burger because I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, and stood off at a side counter to wait for it.
Meanwhile, a junkie who’s high as a kite is trying to decide what size popcorn to buy, and she’s got her kid with her — he’s maybe four or five years old. She’s speaking like a tape where they slowed it down, it sounded bizarre. Anyway, she finally gets her popcorn, pumps the bag chock full of the hot yellow grease that’s supposed to simulate butter, than grabs a big handful of the greasy mess and shoves it into the hands of the little kid. The kid looks baffled, and is trying to hold onto as much of the popcorn as he can.
Mother of the Year says, “Don’t lose any of that. You can’t be taking all of mine.” I don’t think she was kidding. I guess it’s a point in her favor that she was taking the kid to the movies.
I hate that I think of junkies as subhuman, but I kinda do. It makes me feel bad, but they’re like zombies who only approximate people. It’s why I hate drugs so much.
Anybody who needs a fix of something so desperately that other people are just pavement to get there. Weren’t we talking about Narcissistic Personality Disorder just the other day?
Being a parent is like being a cop. Nine out of ten of the people who want the job are the last people in the world who should have the job.