Constant stimulants, and constant depressive substances.

Duality exists in all facets of life I guess. Stimulation was a must and a straight life of rules and laws and responsibilities has almost always been something I'm essentially incapable of.

Jobs, careers, relationships and family affairs have always been a second thought after the inevitable pursuit of escape in a faraway town or city or country with cheap liquor and low hanging fruit like women I could easily acquire.

I arrived in the Caribbean just a few days ago and I already had baby mama drama without the baby.

Enough drama to last a reality TV star five seasons of shit show suck.

Everywhere I go I expect things to be different until they become the same. Everywhere I go and everything I do as a form of escapism turns into the worst decision while simultaneously being the best damn decision of my entire littoral life.

Story of my life, trying to mold-make a psychiatric condition into a wife. The walking borderline personality disorder that I had quickly proceeded to fall in love with was currently throwing every dish in my pantry out of a window onto the street while I could hear the neighborhood constituency vocalizing/ the shit out of their disapproval for my shenanigan like love interest gone wrong.

My newest heart throb from the depths of hell was drunk. She teetered, tottered, and fell out the window with my printer as she tried to throw it of a window.

She didn't know that the cord had wrapped itself most of the way around her leg and arm. Nothing went in slow motion like most claim it to be in these circumstances. She fell quick, she hit the gravel pavement hard.

Blood immediately, broken snaps that audiophile's would pay big bucks for echoed in the thick humidity filled night.

She had been drunk in a ethereal way, trans-dimension like intoxication. She screamed as she fell. As my mind always does, I didn't feel anything at that moment. I went completely television static like numb.

Second story falls don't normally kill people. Maiming, while unpleasant and extraordinarily inconvenient is far preferable to death. That wasn't her story, nor what I live with regarding her death. Death has been all around since the very beginning, and seems to always be a constant visitor to a shitty asshole crust a fault.

She died, and our story began. Her head had become a concave hellscape on a cobble stone road on a hot and putrid shithole in a Caribbean humidity dense as the driven snow in Colorado.

People crowded around, and in familiar Caribbean like lateness the ambulance waited a solid few hours to come scrape her corpse from the cobble stones that had likely seen a lot of death over the years from different kinds of people, persons, and persuasions.

I think I booked a ticket the second her ticket was punched. I honestly did not experience much more emotion than a tinge of panic once I realized that the fall she experienced might render her a vegetable and not a non-issue. I flew out of the local regional airport to my next port of call and smiled as I sipped my gin and tonic in a first class seat I had scammed my way into. This might sound harsh, and if it does, put this book down pussy. It's not for you.