She Used to Be a Sinner, but She Recently Became a Saint

She’s standing on the cusp of sainthood, with this acrid look around the edges of her eyes. She has forcibly forgotten all those hours of cocaine indulgence and the intermittent dabbling in heroin. She has deleted those carnal scenes of strangers without condoms moaning and wriggling helplessly on top of her. They are gone. She chooses not to speak about those desperate days of poverty, unless, of course, the convenience of bolstering her image as a well rounded, hard working, struggling person comes into play.

She looks at other people who are young and are doing the exact same thing now as she was doing then, and she reeks disdain. She spews pity at them, and looks for any available ear in which to pour some sanctimonious vitriol regarding the shittiness of other people’s lives and their lacking moral spirit. She makes extra sure never to bring up her years of fucking undesireables and snorting undesireables and leaving her unmentionables like flags on flag poles all over town. 

She is doing it for the sake of money. She likes money. She wants money. She would cook up money in a little spoon, put it in a syringe, tie off and shoot up if she could. But she can’t, so there’s no point in making a trite drug reference, is there? Shirking her punk ethos in the name of the most anti-punk thing in the world, which is fine, because somehow she has justified that to herself, and, well, you know, whatever. 

So there will be no more cocaine. There will be no more flasks of Ancient Age sloshing at the bottom of some $2 purse that she stole from Goodwill. There will be no more wandering into Saturday afternoon Bat Mitzvahs and eating all the turkey sandwiches with a glazed over, hungover look in her eye. There will be no more fuck bucket lists, and there will be no more text messages coming in at all hours of the night from random ass strangers looking for ass. 

There will just be her, and her “boyfriend” and her job and her rent checks that clear every month and the Internet that never gets shut off. It will just be her and her organic vegetables, her Netflix subscription, her moderate, well selected glasses of wine. Her unrealized dreams and her wasted youth, all bundled up in some hellhole of an apartment on the nice side of town, with cats and molding cheeses and nothing nice to say about anybody else in the world.

She has been climbing and climbing for years and years, just to have the opportunity to look down on you. And she does it well.