Another Day.

So here is a story I wrote a few years ago.  No real reason why, I just felt like writing and this is what came out.  Any feedback would be appreciated.
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My cigarette burns down to the filter. The last one in the pack. The last one I will ever smoke. Or so I tell myself. I'm 32 and the doctor tells me I've already smoked my lungs past 60. The little pleasures in life are all I have left. No more family. No job. No prospects. Just a meager little government check that comes in at the end of the month. Most of that goes to the smokes and the whisky. Not the healthiest diet I know, but what do I care anymore. My chest aches, my head pounds, and the voices don't stop.
Where do they come from. Voices I can't make out. Voices I recognize. Voices in foriegn languages that I don't speak, but for some reason when they are in my head I can understand them. Now don't assume that the voices are the cause of my current conditions. Those are just an added bonus to all the fucked up things that have occured in my life.
Well that last smoke is out, and I'm already getting pants on to go get the next pack. So much for quitting, right. Well to be fair I'm out of whisky too. Maybe that kid down the street will have some weed I can buy off him. That always shuts the voices up and calms me down. Well here we go.      
 There's the landlord, if you can really call him that. He just sits in the hall and bitches at anyone who is late on rent. The government takes care of that for me, so he doesn't have anything to say to me. Which in turn pisses him off. I'm quiet, rent is paid, and I don't cause trouble. An ideal tenant you might say, and I think that's the problem with him. He has nothing to hold against me. Well there's that normal look of resentment he has on when I pass his little armchair in the hall. He bolted this one down after one of the college kids stole the last one and threw it off the roof. He sits there all day just watching and waiting. He eats there, and then around 9:00 he goes to bed, just to be back out at six in the morning.
  Out the door and into another cold overcast autumn day. It seems that every day is like this anymore. Well that might just be my screwed up head thinking inproperly again.
  Damn I need a smoke. Three blocks to the corner store where the smokes are cheap, and they actually sell booze in this part of town. Too many churches and not enough bars. The path to happiness isn't in hymns and prayers, but in pints and shots. Well that's what my father always told me. Drunken old bastard. For all his faults I guess he did raise me decently after mom died. I mean, I graduated high school and university. Had a good career, and a wonderful family. Life was good. 'Was' being the key word. But it's not time to think about that now.
  Yeah there's Stevie down on the stone wall in front of his parents house. He goes by 'Stephan' and thinks dreadlocks and reggae makes him a Rastafarian. Well, the weed is good so I play along. He's all out unfortunately, but if I come back later he'll take me to his "brutha's" house over on Broadmoore to get a "fat sack of the ganga."
  I've never understood why the kids these days need to play out some stupid little fad to feel good about themselves. Well I really don't understand why anyone does much of anything to be happy anymore. It seems that happiness is a concept I lost years ago, when I lost the girls. Dammit, get those thoughts out of your head. Those thoughts are what led to the scars on your wrists and and the ulcer in your gut. Get to the store and get the goddamn smokes, and a few bottles of whisky. Looks like the gas station got robbed again last night. That's one reason why I don't shop there. That and the fact that it's a national chain so the prices are jacked way up. Oh and no hooch. No one messes with the old man at the corner store. He's been there for fifty years, and he knows how to handle the double barrel 12 guage behind the counter. Some little hood tryed to rob the place a few years back and lost his left ear. Most people thought the old man was aiming for his head and missed. But us regulars know his aim was right where he wanted it. Needless to say noone has tryed it since.
  Well shit, he doesn't have my brand of smokes. I guess I can spend a few extra bucks at the gas station, but I got to get the whisky here. Not too expensive, but also not too cheap. Just pricey enough to taste good, but cheap enough to not break the bank.
  With my little black bag in hand I set off to that damn chain store where gas is through the roof, and well everything else is too. It looks like the windows were broken out, and someone might have gotten shot. Just another day in this wonderful little world. I pay two dollars more for a pack here than I would on the corner, but I need them.
  Well back home I guess. Stephan says to come see him in an hour and we'll head over to his friends house. So I go back home for a few drinks and some light reading. Not to mention I need to get my gun. I never go to a strange drug dealer's house unarmed. Not that I think I'm going to need it, but it never hurts to be prepared.
  I try to watch some news, but that always just pisses me off. More hate and intolerance. Murder, death, war, all the wonders of the human race. Never anything interesting on the news these days. Just all the same old shit that has always been on there. The more violence and sex you report the higher the ratings I'm told.
  One of the pipes in the kitchen just broke. I guess I could go talk to the landlord about it, or I could just shut off the water and forget about it. Well I would probably need to at least take a shower sometime. So down the hall we go. He says he'll get someone on it in a few hours and to just shut it off. He has a big smile on his face, as if he thinks he finally has something on me. Well I don't think rusty old pipes is in any way my fault. But I'll let him have this little victory. At least it'll put a different look on his face next time I pass him by.
  Looks about time to go meet Stephan. Grab some cash out of the safe and go down the street. Where the hell is that kid. Now I look like the weird guy hanging out in front of some kid's house. There he comes, dread cap and all. Well let's get this over with. The voices are getting a little louder now, that's the only reason I'm so eager to get this over with. Broadmoore is six blocks west and then two blocks north to Stephan's friend. I should have worn a heavier jacket, the wind is cutting through my thin hoodie. We're keeping a good pace so it shouldn't take too long. Of course this area is bordering on what passes as a ghetto in this town. Feeling better about bringing the gun after all. We pass the primary school, the kids are at recess. It's almost too cold out for it today, but they're enjoying every minute of it on the broken down equipment. The twins used to love the monkey bars, but that was a long time ago.
  This little rundown house on the corner with the peace sign painted on the door. That's not conspicuous is it. So here I meet Jeremy, who acts as if he is a marijuana expert. Just give me something to get me high. I don't care too much. If I can smoke it and feel good, then it's fine by me. So after a lot of bullshit and pothead gargan, I bought a half ounce for $65. I don't remember what kind of cushy white dank ass whatever I ended up with, I just want to get home and see if I can find a pipe to smoke out of. Maybe I should get some papers on the way home just in case.
  I get home to find some smelly ass sticking out from under my sink. I guess the plumber is finally here. Well I hope it's the plumber, and not some random asshole with his torso stuck in my cabinets. So I go rummage in a pile of rubbish in the hall closet to see if I can find my grandfather's old tobacco pipe. I always feel a little distinguished smoking that thing. If this goddamn plumber would just leave I could relax.
  Maybe one of these voices is his. I've wondered a lot lately if the voices are actually peoples thoughts. I don't know. It all seems a bit crazy. I could probably get some meds from a psychiatrist to make them go away, but then you're pegged as crazy for the rest of your life. I don't need someone else telling me I'm crazy. I'm just fine thinking it myself. My little theory doesn't exactly make sense though. Some of the voices don't use the modern lingo, or language. It's odd to think that I'm hearing some voices out of Victorian England, but that's the best I can explain it. So I'm just going to smoke a bit and block them out.
  The plumber just left, and hoorah, there's the pipe. I think that's good enough. It's been a while since I've smoked pot so it takes me a bit to break it up what not. But alas, finally I have a bowl loaded and some easy tunes playing on the stereo. This is a mix I made when I was younger. Blind Melon, and Sublime with a little Bob Marley. I figured it was fitting what with the Marley, and the fact that I bought the weed off some Rasta kids.
  Damn. I don't know if the weed is that strong, or if it's the fact that I haven't smoked in a while, or maybe both. But goddamn I'm out of it. And now I'm out.
  I've hated sleep for a long time. I try to stay awake as much as possible, or just loaded. I don't tend to dream when I'm drunk. But the dreams are coming on fast now. Back to that day.
  The twins just got out of school. It is my birthday so we are going home to get ready to go out for dinner. Helen is home getting ready because she always takes too long. We're meeting my parents and some friends at a nice little place on the other side of town. I stopped at the light at National and Elm, and waited for it to turn green. The light changes and I get about halfway through the intersection. That's all I ever remember, then I wake up in the hospital with Helen crying and saying it's all my fault. I've taken them away from her. But this dream is different. I actually see the drunken postman come through the red light doing sixty. I see the back half of my Volvo rip off. And I see the twins thrown out onto the street. I've never seen this before. Of course this is what I've been told. But this dream is so vivid that it's as if I wasn't knocked out on impact. Now I see Helen taking the handful of pills, and laying down in our bed where they found her. Over the course of a few weeks, everything I knew and loved was taken from me.
  I awake with a start. I go to the kitchen and get a glass and pour myself a good amount of scotch. I light up a smoke and take another few little hits off the pipe and try to cry. I've not cryed since their funerals, and I haven't been able to shed a tear since. It's worse feeling this bad and not being able to let the emotions out. Well let's drown it with the hooch. Another day. A horrible day. Things will be better tomorrow I tell myself. I don't believe it, but I have to tell myself that.  

I am an introvert.  A lot of times I don't think people understand that whether they've been told or not.  I don't always like to talk, on the contrary, unless I have something to say I rarely talk.  And I don't like to be talked to all the time, mainly because I have no idea how to respond to people.  I'm not socially inept I just literally don't know how to respond to people most of the time. 
And I need to be left alone sometimes.  People just don't get that I guess.  If I don't have time to myself to recharge I can't function properly.  It can be tough in a relationship if this is not understood.  I want to spend time with people some of the time, but most of the time I can't do it. 
I have no idea where I'm going with this. 
That is all.

So I've developed a nice bout of depression lately.  Maybe it's because my birthday is in two weeks and I always seem to get depressed around this time.  I think I'm unhappy with where I am on some subconscious level.  I am happy with my life as it is, but I think subconsciously I'm unhappy with what I've accomplished.  The only thing I feel I've accomplished in my adult life that means anything was meeting my wife and getting married.  I dropped out of college.  I've never had a "good" job.  I have no savings, and poor credit.  I realize all these things, and I know that happiness is the most important thing in my life.  And I am happy.  But this goddamn depression really makes me think of all that shit I listed above.  I keep telling myself that one day I will be better off financially and I will fix all my problems.  I don't believe it of course.  So I guess I'll just trudge on through life and make the best of it.

Here we go.  I'm not doing this for recognition or popularity.  I feel that at times I have something to say, and this is where that will go.  I could care less if anyone reads this.  I don't give a fuck if people don't like it, or don't agree with my opinions.  This is not for you.  This is what I think.  That is all.