Ok, so.
I believe my vbjournal covered the bulk of my drug use. I became physically dependent on heroin at the age of seventeen. Lots of misery and obsession and repetition followed.
Luckily when I was ready, my cousin and my uncle both put down some money and I was able to move from Ellicott City, which is just west of Baltimore, into a halfway house in Boca Raton, Florida.
So in July of 2007. I found myself, on my 21st birthday, wandering around East Boca on foot. I can remember the sun beating me down, sweat dripping from every pore on my body. I had been through detox, but I didn't sleep through the night for months. That day I couldn't find my way out of my neighborhood for what felt like hours. The humidity coupled with my brain and body, angry for lack of heroin, formed an impenetrable veil of confusion and exhaustion.
I ended up making my way over to the business office at the halfway house. A guy named Carlo recognized me as a new resident.
Carlo was charged with the duty of convincing addicts and alcoholics, or their parents, that this particular halfway house was the place they needed to be. He was an older Italian man with a gray mustache and gold peaking out from inside his clothing. He drove a shiny new black Cadillac CTS.
"What's up Nick?"
"Carlo! I'm sick! It's like ninety-nine degrees out here! I can't find work! And it's my birthday!"
So Carlo invites me into his office and proceeds to get me a job working for a guy named Ray.
So the next day I get on a bus with two other guys from the halfway house. We get off the bus, and I have no idea what the fuck kind of job I've been hired to do. We walk into an open office area, with maybe ten desks set up. I'm asked to have a seat. Before long everyone in the place is on their feet shouting into telephones. They're talking about dollars and euros and oil and shit I don't even know. Then I meet Ray.
Ray is a guy I will never forget for as long as I live. The guy is maybe six inches shorter than I, with short gray hair spiked. He's got these suspicious eyes like chaos. He's got a gold Rolex, a gold bracelet, a gold chain around his neck... and he's fierce.
Thus I began my short career as a "broker."
What I did for the following two years wasn't right. I justified it in my head, I thought to myself; "It's ok! I'm not breaking any laws."
And I wasn't. I worked for a group of guys who legally took people's money and in exchange gave them absolutely nothing.
My roommate and I think we might have a story, working for these people, that could sell books or movies or TV shows. He met them in Barcelona, back when they were breaking laws. They moved him to Florida after they set up shop down here and decided to go mostly legit.
I'll probably elaborate more on that another time. For now though, suffice to say I'm out of that business. My commodities license was revoked and our attorney told us it would probably cost between $20-$40,000 to get it reinstated. Not worth it to me, I'm sick of markets.
I've been out since November of 2009. During the last seven months I've been moving from job to job. I tried a couple sales jobs, I worked in a warehouse for a while, got a part time job stocking magazines in various retail chains, and now I'm working as a behavioral health technician in a rehab. Basically what that means is I keep track of patients and make sure they're not fucking each other or killing each other (or themselves) and I gotta convince them not to leave sometimes as well.
I have a girlfriend. Our one year anniversary is in August. She's six years older than me... she turned thirty in May. She's my baby. She treats me better than any other woman I've ever had in my life, save my mom. Reading my older journal entries today, I was definitely forced to realize how sick my relationships were in the past. Very glad things have changed so much.
Well, my roommate's laptop is almost out of battery power, and I don't know where the charger is, so I'll write more tomorrow.
peace!
I believe my vbjournal covered the bulk of my drug use. I became physically dependent on heroin at the age of seventeen. Lots of misery and obsession and repetition followed.
Luckily when I was ready, my cousin and my uncle both put down some money and I was able to move from Ellicott City, which is just west of Baltimore, into a halfway house in Boca Raton, Florida.
So in July of 2007. I found myself, on my 21st birthday, wandering around East Boca on foot. I can remember the sun beating me down, sweat dripping from every pore on my body. I had been through detox, but I didn't sleep through the night for months. That day I couldn't find my way out of my neighborhood for what felt like hours. The humidity coupled with my brain and body, angry for lack of heroin, formed an impenetrable veil of confusion and exhaustion.
I ended up making my way over to the business office at the halfway house. A guy named Carlo recognized me as a new resident.
Carlo was charged with the duty of convincing addicts and alcoholics, or their parents, that this particular halfway house was the place they needed to be. He was an older Italian man with a gray mustache and gold peaking out from inside his clothing. He drove a shiny new black Cadillac CTS.
"What's up Nick?"
"Carlo! I'm sick! It's like ninety-nine degrees out here! I can't find work! And it's my birthday!"
So Carlo invites me into his office and proceeds to get me a job working for a guy named Ray.
So the next day I get on a bus with two other guys from the halfway house. We get off the bus, and I have no idea what the fuck kind of job I've been hired to do. We walk into an open office area, with maybe ten desks set up. I'm asked to have a seat. Before long everyone in the place is on their feet shouting into telephones. They're talking about dollars and euros and oil and shit I don't even know. Then I meet Ray.
Ray is a guy I will never forget for as long as I live. The guy is maybe six inches shorter than I, with short gray hair spiked. He's got these suspicious eyes like chaos. He's got a gold Rolex, a gold bracelet, a gold chain around his neck... and he's fierce.
Thus I began my short career as a "broker."
What I did for the following two years wasn't right. I justified it in my head, I thought to myself; "It's ok! I'm not breaking any laws."
And I wasn't. I worked for a group of guys who legally took people's money and in exchange gave them absolutely nothing.
My roommate and I think we might have a story, working for these people, that could sell books or movies or TV shows. He met them in Barcelona, back when they were breaking laws. They moved him to Florida after they set up shop down here and decided to go mostly legit.
I'll probably elaborate more on that another time. For now though, suffice to say I'm out of that business. My commodities license was revoked and our attorney told us it would probably cost between $20-$40,000 to get it reinstated. Not worth it to me, I'm sick of markets.
I've been out since November of 2009. During the last seven months I've been moving from job to job. I tried a couple sales jobs, I worked in a warehouse for a while, got a part time job stocking magazines in various retail chains, and now I'm working as a behavioral health technician in a rehab. Basically what that means is I keep track of patients and make sure they're not fucking each other or killing each other (or themselves) and I gotta convince them not to leave sometimes as well.
I have a girlfriend. Our one year anniversary is in August. She's six years older than me... she turned thirty in May. She's my baby. She treats me better than any other woman I've ever had in my life, save my mom. Reading my older journal entries today, I was definitely forced to realize how sick my relationships were in the past. Very glad things have changed so much.
Well, my roommate's laptop is almost out of battery power, and I don't know where the charger is, so I'll write more tomorrow.
peace!
