"At my word," she said. Don't you mean, "mark my words?" I think. I look at her square in the eye and know she's never been in my shoes before. Look at her sitting there in her pink polyester suit with matching shoes. I bet she's never smoked crack a day in her life. I bet she's never jonesed or been strung out out or stolen or sucked dick to get high. She's not the enemy though, is she? Who is it? Don't look in the fucking mirror because you'll see the enemy staring right back at you. But she's not. The enemy is in me though. The enemy is alive. It's killing me; eating me - whole. I could run circles around all the pink-polyester-wearing bitches of the world if I could just beat this thing. But can I? Don't know. Want to. Try to. Will pray to. Mark my word.