I don’t like to beg. Which is all borrowing really is, when you get right down to it. ’Cause I ain’t got it, and somebody else do. The way it usually goes down is that the chances of you ever getting an opportunity to pay it back are slim, ’cause once you start borrowing it’s like getting behind in your bills: you hardly ever catch up. First you have to keep track of who lent you some money and how much. But just say one day you get lucky and run into a few extra dollars (which ain’t likely). Shit, by that time you’ve probably forgot how much you even borrowed and who you still owe (unless the person won’t let you forget, especially if it was some real money, like over a hundred dollars), and if that’s the case, since you can’t in good conscience decide who to pay first, you just avoid all of ’em for however long it takes you to pay everybody back: never. Of course this means your relationship is damaged forever, because in the back of their mind, you fucked them, showed no respect, took them for granted, or just can’t be trusted or depended on. Which also means that when you get into another jam, you can’t even twist your mouth to ask for so much as a quarter. This is the reason why I try not to borrow. I’ll go to the pawn shop first. But I’ve done that so many times that I don’t have nothing left worth pawning.

As a man, I don’t care if I am handicapped, I still want to maintain some level of dignity. Have to set standards for myself, even if I don’t live up to ’em. Which is all I’m trying to do. It’s just hard. A part of my mind knows exactly what I need to do to get on track, and another part wants to do it. Just the way the first part’s laying it out. I mean, it’s crystal-fucking clear. But. There’s another part—and, sadly enough, a very small part but it’s the piece that seems to have the most power—that says: It’s too hard. You’re too scared. You ain’t never going to amount to nothing no matter how hard you try, no matter what you do. You ain’t never going to know what real success feels like. Won’t be able to inhale it. Exhale it. Puff on it. No. That little section screams the loudest: You’re fucked up, Lewis. Twisted. Far from crazy, but just got too many ideas and not enough of what it takes to execute them. You don’t even really know where Point A is any-fucking-way. And how do you know when you reach Point B? Sometimes you don’t even realize that one step ain’t even a whole step. You just thought you was moving, but you been standing still. I know I ain’t been making much progress, so, to stop all them red-hot wires from short-circuiting my whole mind, I shut it up with a drink.