March 18, 2008

This outpatient program/school is pretty good. My therapist, Joan, is kind of a bitch but the other ones are cool. The place is small, there are only fifteen kids in here and they’re all here for behavior problems. I’m nothing like them. When I look at them all I can think is, “You’re in here for some marijuana? Marijuana!?”… like from Half Baked?

Today I had to take the science FCAT. I did good, I always do good on tests, even my piss tests (wink, been faking them for years). Stoop taught me how to fake my drug tests really good. He’s always two steps ahead of me. I would empty out a nasal spray bottle and fill it up with someone else’s clean urine — usually the kid who lives across the street, he’s like a super nice kid — and I would get some string and tie it around my waist underneath my boxers. When they search you they really only search your pockets and pat you down, but I keep the bottle right on top of my dick and they don’t pat you down between your legs. The tricky part about faking your urine tests is keeping the piss warm. Stoop taught me to get some glove warmers that people use when they go skiing and stuff. It’s a little pouch that starts to warm up when you rub it. I would tape a few of those to the outside of the bottle and shiggity-bam there you have it, warm clean piss, concealed and ready to go. However, at some probation offices, they actually look at your dick while you pee so in that situation you’re pretty much fucked. But when you’re a kid, they kind of spare you that degradation. The drug tests stopped keeping me clean a long time ago, but I suppose it helps. My dad told them I always fake my drug tests so they blood tested me the other day. It’s nice when you have nothing to hide.

Man, I’m really getting fat, I HAVE to lose 15lbs. Everyone I see is shocked at how much weight I’ve gained, I don’t really notice it until people point it out. I saw a picture of myself the other day and I was amazed. My face is bloated, as if someone pumped maple syrup into it, and my stomach hangs over my belt. My thighs don’t fit in any of my pants. I feel disgusting. Getting clean is great, getting fat sucks.

There’s this meeting on Sundays right on the Intracoastal in Fort Lauderdale — it’s so nice. It’s huge too, like a hundred addicts, sometimes more. It’s in the this park on the water and behind it boats drive by, million-dollar homes right across. I met this kid Gio there. He’s a few years old than I am. He’s got tattoos on both arms, young Italian kid, probably like 19. He has a clean-shaven face, short hair and is stocky but wide, like a boxer. He dressed a little ghetto, baggy pants, white Air Forces and a sleeveless shirt. He looked like someone I would be friends with. He grew up in Florida, we know some of the same people, he’s been going to meetings since he was fifteen. I guess that’s how he knows everyone. I don’t know how we started talking, but he was telling my same story. He said he always had older friends, he smoked crack, he robbed people, his dad kicked him out of his house and he was homeless for a few months, we were sharing stories back to back, just laughing and shit… then he started talking about God. Like for 10 minutes he was telling me how God was a big part of him staying clean, and he looked up at the sky, “You’re gunna tell me there’s no one up there? This time around, me and God got tight, I pray everyday day, bro.” He’d be talking about God but then he’d stop mid-sentence and be like, “Oh holy shit, look at that ass.” 

For some reason, me and Gio just get along, I picked him up at his halfway a few times a week. He only has a few more months clean than I do but he’s already on his 4th step, I think I’m gunna ask him to sponsor me.