A Beautiful Crystal Meth Lady, Moving In, Moving Out

WE MOVED FURNITURE all day, from her rental house across the street into my mortgaged property. I was exhausted by seven, ready to sleep. Not her. She and her boyfriend said they'd be back late, and they drove the stove we had moved out, the one she was stealing to conceal evidence of meth cooking, the one she claimed was hers, two hundred miles to a place where it was sold on EBay. She called and said she didn't think she would be spending the first night in my house, where all her possessions were, because she intended to continue working late to finish cleaning the rental house which we had already cleaned. At midnight I awakened, refreshed, and remembered that she would still be "cleaning" across the street, so I thought I would walk over and try to help. A good hard meth "run", as they call it, can last four days, but not much longer. She had no cleaning to do in the already clean house, and I found her locked in the bathroom with her boyfriend, sucking and snorting. The noises were amusing, and stimulating. Here she is, moving into my house with her daughter, because I love her. She has no money, no job because she can't keep a job, nowhere else to go. Dozens of meth head friends, but nowhere other than my house to go. Real friends, these zombies, unable or unwilling to give her a place to stay, but at least they do not kill your buzz, they are mutual social outcasts, they understand each other. Her husband and other boyfriend are both in jail. Her plan, it seems, was to seamlessly transfer her sick and disgusting lifestyle into my house, rent free, right under my nose, so to speak, perhaps assuming I'm too old and naive to notice. Several orgasms and lines of powder daily, several batches of cookies and carrot cake to make my stove an honest stove, and to vent the godlike four day rechargeable energy meth brings. She would be my cook and my maid, she said. A new batch or two of freshly cooked meth, derivative of Sudafed and Prestone antifreeze, a little battery acid, and another toxic chemical or two, only when I would not be home, purchased at a different hardware store every day, to elude detection. She had seen that I have no television set, and said "what do you do?", as if she had never heard of books. No, my love, the question is: "what do YOU do?" Seventy two hours up, sixteen down, predictably, right on schedule, year after organ killing year. Five eight and one twenty five, no fat, no health, but tight jeans and cleavage to attract would be victims of venereal disease into her bed. How long until I awakened at three A.M. to the sound of her bed banging against the wall, for endless meth and lust filled hours? Her constant sniffing is merely an annoyance, one she does not seem to notice. I had to confront her, and I had to kick her out before she spent a night under my roof. Help them hit bottom, so they can make the fateful decision to live and rehab rather than die, then help them start to climb out of their abyss into the the light of health and a happy, productive life. Isn't that the formula? But not if they aren't ready, not if they vanish into the night, with their compact mirror, razor blade, and small plastic pouch within the concealment of a purse.