the fail

twenty pounds of gut hang over the waist band of his rust stained gap cords. crusty enchilada sauce embellishes his soiled brown hoodie hidden under which is the gray stubble of his once shiny vibrant bleached blond hair. his once pride in appearence, philosphy even, has been sucked away by the rotted and filthy self propegating self sustaining medusa head thing called treatment center. The fluorescent ceilings of aa meeting rooms spotlight his external disinegration unkindly...clean and vibrant and sharp once he will emerge a fecund and rolly polly hippy, a thing to hate. pray for him, pray for mike m for he, I, is an alcoholic!