Mary Jane's Last Dance

Meeting Mary Jane

I remember the first time I was curious enough to ask how and why my mother had named me Mary Jane. I had been 7 at the time. The Indiana sun had warmed my face as I sat at my little broken desk, watching the blue sky through my window, just thinking. Why do I have the name I do? Who am I named after, am I special? So being an innocent kid, I simply made my way into the living room and asked my "mumma" why my name was Mary Jane. As I stood there waiting for her reply, she took another hit, the bittersweet smoke of a lit joint clogged my nose and lungs. She had been splayed out on our rickety, stained floral couch. I coughed when her delayed reply finally came. "You were named...after the best damn joint I've ever..smoked in my life." as she finished her short reply, she chuckled deeply and hiccuped. "Now go back to your damn room and play like you're supposed to."

I remember the hot tears that streamed down my face as I ran back to my room, ashamed and embarrassed. For a 7 year old, I was smart. I knew my mom didn't give two shits about me. My dad died protecting her from the thugs who had come for her drug money. The best joint she'd smoked, I'd found out later, had been the last one my father had ever rolled. It was those grams that the thugs had come looking for payment for. It was that one joint that changed my mother into the pothead vegetable she is now.

I never knew my father. I was only 4 months along when he was killed. Mom only kept me because her best friend persuaded her to, though apparently she barely cared, because she was still lighting up with me developing in her womb. I was addicted the moment I came into the world.

Because she doesn't have a job, she gets her drugs from sex. Whoring for a little bit of weed, I know. It's pretty shitty considering she won't even buy me food to get by on. I have to steal whatever it is I eat. Considering I have to steal a lot to make up for the munchies. I'm not proud of anything.

Including the lifestyle I've been forced to choose.

I smoke weed too. A lot. I guess you could say I'm hypocritical when I call my mom a pothead vegetable, because I'm one too now. Well, a pothead. But not a vegetable. I work at the garage down the street for free tattoos. Fucked up, yeah? I know. And I get my weed from the tat artist. For working, that is. So I get tats and weed. But I put in crazy hours because we fix vehicles for drug lords whose vehicles get shot up during a bad deal. That's why I get both as payment. They've always been satisfied with my work.

I did finish high school, in case you're wondering how old I am. It's currently June 28th. My 19th birthday was 3 days ago. You figure it up. I'm a Cancer, which is what I'll probably get in my later years if I last that long. My diploma is somewhere in my tiny closet, buried somewhere. I don't really care. School was a joke. Too easy in my opinion. I hated the way the teachers and other students treated me. Always the outcast. The girl who smelled like reefer and had green dreads, facial piercings, and tats. Yep, the freak. God I hated my science teacher. Always giving me looks of disapproval and snubbing me every chance she gets. I beat the shit out of her the day I graduated. Best feeling ever, besides being covered in grease or high.

I spend my free time robbing little corner stores for food, or smoking weed and pondering life. Sometimes I hang out with the guys in the neighborhood I grew up with, and the sex is always great. Some would call me a loser. I don't care, I do what I want when I want. I'm a free bird. I come and go as I please. You can turn your nose down at my old green, ripped converse or my holey, faded old jeans I've had for 4 years. You can hate my cutout Bob Marley graphic t-shirts I wear all the time. Couldn't give two shits less.

These Indiana nights get crazy sometimes. I've often woken up in places I've never seen, but I always make it back home. Back to the rinky-dink apartment that I share with my mother, and occasionaly a wayward guy she reels in for the night.

If you're still reading, I assume you're interested. If you've already made judgments against me, great. I have plenty of people who do the same, you're no better. If you don't like me, why are you still reading? Go hate somewhere else. All you need is love, weed and.. yeah. Just those two things.

Just a warning. The events you read about are pretty damn graphic most of the time. So don't say I didn't warn you. Love and Peace Out.