There was so much associated with the big city of New York that he would never get used to, the glamour and glitz all just a little too much for him. He stayed, not because he liked it here, but because he could sense some of the only people he knew around here.
There was a strange amount of sanity gleaned from staying in cheap rooming houses, as far as Blues was concerned, like it felt right for him to have no real roots regardless of what the rest of the 'family' believed. For him, there would never be a time that he could conceive of not performing, traveling around, doing little shows, and staring at that familiar bottle and syringe that he kept denying were of importance to him.
He valued his relationship with Heroin, he truly did, but he knew how dangerous going down that road again could be.
Alcohol, however, was his good friend and constant companion even if she didn't know it. Even when she was mean to him he still held her close and told her all those things he couldn't tell anyone else. However, he had to admit to being intrigued when his nephew suggested a little trip down methadone lane. He couldn't remember what it felt like, which was an odd sensation since Blues hated not being able to recall things.
Which was why he chose the alcohol over the heroin. Blacking out was less dangerous than losing control.
Rousing himself from a boredom-induced nap when he heard Grunge walk into room, he sat up and winced as he noticed the stubbed toe. "Hey, nephew. You alright? You want a drink?" As he spoke, he reached for the bottle next to his bed, dragging a glass over to pour some whiskey into.