(no subject)
i was sitting on the floor yesterday, with my head on my coffee table where i had just finished snorting several lines of coke, high as fuck and literally dead, in the state that i get where i think my heart stops beating when my neighbor came by. i couldnt move to get the door so i just sat there, numb. he came in anyway, he knew that i was home. he saw me there, fucked up as ever, and came and sat on my couch in front of me. "why do you do this to yourself?" he said. if i had of been able to respond, i probably wouldn't have anyway. the only answer i can think of is because it keeps me living. i know without it my system would shut down, and because i like it. it's the only thing in my life that has ever really stayed constant.
theres something that makes me feel proud about forming the perfect line of powder. there's something sickly beautiful that keeps my fascination with watching a needle slide into my vein that keeps me hanging on. i pride myself in knowing i do these things well, odd, but equally as justifying. it seems like it takes forever for the rush of heroin to hit me and i'm starting to hate it. i watch it go in, and wait an eternity for it to strike. sometimes, it takes more than once. okay, most of the time.
theres something that makes me feel proud about forming the perfect line of powder. there's something sickly beautiful that keeps my fascination with watching a needle slide into my vein that keeps me hanging on. i pride myself in knowing i do these things well, odd, but equally as justifying. it seems like it takes forever for the rush of heroin to hit me and i'm starting to hate it. i watch it go in, and wait an eternity for it to strike. sometimes, it takes more than once. okay, most of the time.