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flashes, which had matured into a neck breaking twitch. In the future an acupuncturist would label this chill on the left side of my neck, liver-wind which will feel on point for an alcoholic sobering up. So I had a hobby, stealing and re-installing mechanical air-freshening devices. Living with the Humphreys was not so much like not being homeless anymore, I couldn’t just adapt my mind to stability. And my mind was a place which walked the train tracks behind the trees where I grew up and smashed bottles on the steel rails.

I could gut a gas station bathroom of its ability to blanket shit scents in about five seconds flat. None of these machines were secure. Why would they be? Who in their right mind would take issue? I did. I wanted the world to smell like the shit that it was full of. I wanted the scent of children’s Tylenol orange to waft up almost silently after a short burst from underneath the front seat of my brother’s car after he picked me up from a gas station downtown and gave me a ride back to the carnage carriage travel trailer I camped out in. I wanted anyone who crossed paths with my unshowered, CFC-smudged, artificial-flower-scented-ass to feel an uncanny assertion of the need to urinate.

Going to sleep at Pepper’s, or the Humphrey’s, and waking up in a gutted travel trailer or a storage closet in my father’s house in New Hampshire, was like a form of blackout. I introduced Pepper to my family once. He and Aubrey spent the weekend with me in