The following is a monologue about a junkie passed out in an underground train station. 

Look at that fucking loser. Wasting his life. Pumping his veins with all sorts of junk. That’s no way for a person to live. Let him rot. That’ll be his punishment. I should go over and say something to him. Fuck that, let him die in his tiny cot. 

No I really should. But by the looks of it he could puke any minute. And my gray sweater and black pants are pricier than his Heroin. Why did he have to throw his life away? Why did he have to be human waste? Maybe I should just go over with some kerosene and put him out of his misery. This man could’ve been a part of history. He could’ve meant something, now he’s just a needle away from the sick taste of death. 

But that’d be wrong. My morals should not get out of line. He can throw himself in the gutter all he wants. Either way, I’m gonna be just fine. He made his choices. These people are full of scum, making me feel guilty. I’d like to forget that, but now my head is full of sympathetic noises. Forgive and forget doesn’t work here. This man is ruining my society. He needs to change his act, but how would that matter anyway?

I’m going to walk over to him and tell him to get a real job. A real goal. A real aim. A real reason to live. None of this junkie shit for him anymore. He’s had enough of that. He needs to be more like me. Wear human clothes. Maybe even some cologne. Holy shit, I could smell his arm pits from all the way home. But he just doesn’t seem to care,  I bet he’d feel better with some product in his hair. 

I really hope he doesn’t puke on me. That’ll be terrible. I don’t know what I would do in that scenario. I should just let this be in my head. Let him die a disgusting death. Fuck you, Junkie man, I hope you die in your sleep. That’d probably be the best thing to ever happen to you. I don’t even believe in god, but that’s a serious prayer.