And there I was, sitting at the tram station in the middle of the night. It was freezing cold and I rocked back and forth on that cold little iron seat. Why the fuck do they make these seats out of metal?! Why can’t they be made of something that doesn’t freeze your arse even more when it’s already too cold to be there? Do they do it on purpose to make people avoid them? I don’t know.
It was across the road from the Hauptbahnhof. There were seedy sex shops and strip bars all around flashing their neon lights at me. Eastern European working girls with cold hard faces smoked cigarettes at the doors looking so unhappy. If I didn’t already feel so hopelessly shit I’d be feeling worse just looking at them. But I’m already in a pit, not much further down left to go.
It’s dark, cold, grey and January. January 2005. Happy New Year.
I have no idea what time it was, but it was that time of night when there are only homeless people, people who work the nights and drunk people around.
People of the night.
People of central stations around the world at night.
We had just had a massive fight.
And I had stormed out.
He was completely drunk and couldn’t care less if he tried; he wouldn’t remember a single thing in the morning anyway. Again. And here I was sitting at the station, by myself, so cold, so tired and so drunk that I just felt sick and empty inside and I couldn’t even cry anymore. I had run out of tears for Skippy, for myself, for this situation I was in over and over again. I just wanted to be able to make him care. I don’t know when he stopped caring. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll have a late lunch and a few more drinks at his work and we’ll start all over again. He puts on his innocent and sweet face, you just can’t stay mad at him. You just forgive him. Always. Again.
Jason had once been rambling about how he’d often find Skippy passed out at train stations because he’d done too much heroin again. Who knows how much of that was true or not. Jason tried to portray himself as Skippy’s big saviour who got him “back on track”. Well whichever track Skippy was on, it definitely wasn’t one to write home about.