One for Jimbo

He keeps staring at me; the man who dwells at the extra large film store with the extra large screens and dilapidated stars, junkies scattered about the dark room with forlorn postures of complete comfort. He watches me like I’m crazy. He wonders what will happen to me after the pain seeps from my bones, my receptors I’ve abused for decades strong.
Tell me, Jimbo, why were you so skinny when you died?
I mean, according to Hollywood, YOU’D MADE IT! Did you ‘make it’? You were sitting at your desk working when you croaked, but you didn’t look good. Why? Didn’t you make it? Hollywood said you did!! either way, in my opinion, Jimbo, as a 60-year-old Junkie with no father…you certainly did…

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