At Share, looking for a few things. Reading glasses (on my last pair), a few odds and sods. 10:00 AM, as soon as they open, and I run into S*, who a few years ago I worked with at the D&D. She was overweight then, lost a ton of weight on the crystal meth diet, was posting swimsuit modelling pictures of herself every day on Facebook.

And then she started rebutting accusations she lost the weight thanks to a diet of largely crystal meth, and then started posting daily how many days and weeks she'd been sober, and then about abusive boyfriends and landlords. In the end you snooze her.

So, here she is, rough as nails, homeless again, apparently shaved her head into a full Mohawk, she's starting to look like a late-stage meth-head. 

She's zoodled, she's talking to me, can't make eye contact, going on a mile a minute, she's got to get out of Nelson, needs a place to camp, get it together, had it with this town, someplace off the grid, I must know? I would know, of course, but she's too busy talking to heed any recommendations, going off, trying to conceal the fact that she's still high as a kite through a superabundance of inane chatter and diatrebe and don't look at her, don't look at her, she's hiding in shame and righteousness

This girl needs to learn to Fentanyl and Chill. In any event, mid thirties, recovery unlikely, scraping by on disability for her ADHD, which I find ironic, how do you diagnose ADHD in a meth-head...

Anyways, mentioned her before, a few more mentions I'm sure and she'll be off to her forever home.