It’s a day just like any other. Large snowflakes rock side to side as they make their way slowly down and land on the tips of my eyelashes. I stand outside Jamaica train station in hopes that panhandling will get me a dollar, a quarter, or a penny. Anything to gather enough funds to get a shot for my collapsed veins and sunken in face. It’s been 3 weeks on the street this time but 3 weeks on the street feels like 3 years. People always wonder what the worst part of being homeless is. It’s the fact that people like you wonder that. I make my way to the dealer and I know he’ll answer, he always answers. On the first ring he picks up, “What’s up champ.” I follow his directions of where to go as if it’s the cure for my fatal disease. Inside my head, it is the cure, the only thing that will make me feel okay again. My skin is crawling, body aching, and my next shot is the only thing on my mind. It’s like I’m a heat-seeking missile and the dealer is the target. I receive my next dose and retreat to whatever public bathroom is the closest. My strength, energy, and enthusiasm for life immediately come to. It’s as if I’m a video game character that just reset his health meter and I’m back to full strength. The strangest part is when I get my fix it also restores my ambition to get sober. Yes, as strange as that sounds. I’m tired of living this life with this double-edged sword. I needed the drugs but I hated the drugs just as much. The drug is life but the drug is death.