Look Ma! No Hands!
People took such awful chances with chemicals and their
bodies because they wanted the quality of their lives to improve.
They lived in ugly places where there were only ugly
things to do. They didn't own doodly-squat, so they couldn't
improve their surroundings. So they did their best to make
their insides beautiful instead.
Goodbye Blue Monday...
STEP 1: Admitting you have a problem
and I take a drag from my green cigarrette...I welcome the thick gray smoke in and exhale a reluctant goodbye through my nose. Smoke myself stupid. I sit beneath a warm laundry vent and all I can think about is how wonderful this feels and how much happiness I would spread if I could bottle it up and pass it out--an endless supply to the homeless. Shove giant horse-crack suppositories up my ass. I have $100 bucks in my bank account. I estimate that half of that is going to be spent on shit. Absolute shit. I buy art books, yet I have stopped drawing altogether myself. I bought a ghetto blaster, but I haven't made music in so long and I have no tapes. I have cameras and film collecting dust. I have notebooks, sketchbooks and an entire two drawers filled with pens, markers, and sticky things rotting dry. Gin and juice my brain loose. Birthday tomorrow. I have no money, no initiative, no creativity. I used to be something, I used to be beautiful.
Needles in my arm to a painless ketchup suicide.
Popping pills to address the ills that fill me.
Snorting powder and drinking bleach.
cigarrettes.
cigarrettes.
cigarrettes.....
and tomorrow, I'm going to run the usual 9-5 on 150mg of Classes and three hits of library work. These chemicals harm me more than the (proverbial) drugs I take to escape them. I get smarter. I earn money. And at the end of the month, its swallowed whole by the shortcuts I take, the illusions I make, the tricks I play on myself to make me think I'm still alive. But I can't even remember the plot of the last book I read. Cracked out on life and I'm fucking okay.
I used to write quite a bit. I want to read my old journals, but I deleted them years ago. Cryptic passages, cathartic brain-vomiting, and cleverly constructed paragraphs that were read, not by words, but by the structured punctuation; collecting the thoughts that were spit out like chewing tobacco into a bucket...dripped out like acid drops in a petri dish...pulled out like teeth...slowly, annoyingly leaked out like rain from your broken rooftop...
___down
______down
_________down
So here I am, starting again from the bottom up. Taking the 12 (humongous) fucking steps to recovery. I'm going to be a functional human again soon. I will create! I will devote time in the week to be awesome! Socialize? Sure, but its me time
(((My neck is sore and my throat feels like ass juice. WHAT? But what in the world could that possibly feel like? I can tell you right now--not good.)))