When I was born I was a premature baby. My “parents” didn’t care. It was there fault. My “Mother” was probably plastered on budweiser and pot the whole time she was pregnant with me. It is a miracle I was even born. But when I was born, a lot of my body parts weren’t finished developing. My lungs were premature, and I am cursed with asthma. My mom probably didn’t care. I was a broken condom. We'll were. But after that day, that was when my hellish life started. And to me when it ended too.
When I was finally able to go “home”, after the many weeks in the hospital, my mom celebrated. Her version of celebration was probably getting drunk and high, then going out to make a few deals. She was probably too plastered to even feed me the first night. My big sister was only three years older than me. I am not really sure who took care of me the first few years, but I know my sister took care of me the most of the first five years of my life.
My so called “father” was never in the picture. I never once met him, never saw a picture of him, I didn’t even know what his voice sounded like. I knew what his name was and that was it. I never knew him, so i didn’t cry when he died. I was eight and he died in a car “accident”. He was being dumb and was drinking and driving. I don’t really know the details, and I don’t really care. If that makes me a bad person then so be it.
Around the time when i could walk talk and cuss like a sailor, I became the king of our lot. All the kids who lived in the string of meth houses, I mean apartments, were around my age. I don’t know if all the woman around our place decided to get knocked up around the same time, but that was the way it was. But with all those kids, I was in my place. I was the packleader, they were my followers. It was pretty great. I could get them to do anything I wanted. With the fact that my parents were rich because they were like drug lords, I had anything I wanted. Whatever they...