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fiending for the same drugs as my controllers. 
Was it something I ate, or was it my millionaire friends bank accounts, smiling down on me from above, full of green and gold, taunting me into submission with hope and compliments and freedom and poverty and thankfulness and a McDonald’s cheeseburger if I’m lucky. 
But hold onto your pity you rich motherfuckers, I’ve sat at your table and dined with you enough to know, it’s not the money that makes me ill, it’s what you choose to do with it that has me throwing up all over the streets, and you should feel lucky I’m sleeping on the curb in my own filth, because in my spirit and rage my real stinky shit will cover your walls because you call it art. ——