I had thought that today was the anniversary of the death of Chicago Bob. Heroin Bob. Bob the first. The Bob that I used to call "Dead Bob" before Pittsburgh Bob, Cocaine Bob, died. At any rate, apparently I have an inability to do things like read calendars effectively, because today is not the fifth, tomorrow is. But I still have Chicago Bob on my mind, as well as the memories of just who I was and what the fuck I was doing then.

I told lilostitch the story over the weekend, mostly prompted by the feelings that I got from seeing Mimi shoot up when we watched "Rent." I always forget about that -- about the way that watching someone shoot up onscreen always triggers that longing inside of me. I won't be thinking about it at all and then wham! Ooh, I remember that, ooh, that always felt so good, ooh, it's been such a long time ...

Many of you know that I used to be a junkie. Most of it happened a solid decade ago, and, among other things, I have a hard time feeling ashamed about it because I realize that it was the era of "heroin chic" ... it was, at that time, a pretty prevalent problem, and I am far from the only one who fell victim.

I talked with n0thingman over the weekend, and he expressed how proud he was of me for all that I have overcome, drug-wise. Rob has said the same thing to me in the past as well. It's one of the few circumstances where, when people tell me that they feel proud of me, I actually feel it, and it feels good. I feel proud of myself. It did take a lot of work. It still takes work sometimes.

I had sat down planning to write about the chain of events: how Daryk led to Bob led to heroin led to my demise. Now I find I simply don't have the words. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.