What people forget
"You're fucking insane!"
"I'm not insane! You're the insane one! Are you kidding me, Mr. 'I-Took-Home-a-Homeless-Boy'? Am I talking to the kid who had people sign his goddamn mattress before they left his house in the morning? If I'm insane, then you're a fucking lunatic!"
"Look: I've heard your stories, I know what you get yourself into. I'm telling you: normal people do not do that."
"I...well...no, they totally do! I don't know what you're talking about!"
"OK, listen: you have the potential to be totally insane. You're like a caterpiller waiting to burst out of your coccoon of crazy. You just need to embrace that crazy."
The thing that D.A.R.E. does not understand about drugs is that the most normal people do them. That kid next to you in class? Pops Vicodin. Does not have a perscription. The boy who works next to you? Snorts a rail every other day before work. Your friend from across the street? Grows pot in her closet. Was addicted to meth in high school. I grew up thinking druggies sold their plasma for the next hit and lived rolling in street corners and passing out in gutters.
Reality? Some of the smartest people I've ever known self-medicate with drugs and alcohol.
And me? Well, I've spent my entire life trying to be a druggie. And failing miserably. I do not understand how people simply "fall into" some awful variety of a meth habit. I call "Not Fair". Any actual goal I've ever had has been drug-related: I physically seek this shit out; I go to extensive lengths to obtain whatever drug has grabbed my fancy at the moment. I will do anything, anywhere, at almost any time. Fair or unfair? Unfair!!!
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck! I've smoked a pack of cigarettes, I'm twitching for more, and "Semi-Charmed LIfe" by Third Eye Blind has never sounded so beautiful in my entire life. Oh man, I don't want to come down, never again, oh, oh man, oh, but, god, but I can't do this again. Twenty-four hours and counting. Thirty-eight hours and couting. Twitching and turning and fuming through awful junkie sleep. The kids across the flip-flop section are staring at my puffy eyes dripping onto my jacket. Bloodshot. Dry. No sleep till Brooklyn or something like it.
"Just those," and her smile shows more teeth than it should and her eyes show more pity.
"Yeah. Just that." I don't merit a sad smile; I don't want a second glance. As the utter obviousness of my fuck-up seeps through my pores, lingers like the sick scent of mildew in the hallway, and clings to my every movement: Yes, I did it. Yes, it was wrong. Yes, I fucking love you.
"Fuck him."
"Are you kidding me? I think I actually love the kid."
"No, fuck him. Who cares; it's just him. Besides, you're just trying to get through life like the next person."
"Yeah man, I am. I am just trying to get through life. It's a point A to point B to points C and D kinda place. I don't want to waste it. And as far as love goes, as far as love goes...I don't know. Love isn't never having to say your sorry. And it's not something that you "just know" when you hit it. Love is love. It's what you do when you love someone. Love is forgiveness. It's fucking up like you never have before and still having a place to go back to. It's moving on, and coming back. It's boring and clingy and it's desperate and painful and you can't let go and I don't understand these cosmic connections between people and I hate it and I'm lonely and bored and you are happier without me and I hate it and I wish I had not lasted all these seconds outside the womb."
"And me? I guess I'm just trying to find someone else whose shit I can put up with who will put up with my shit too."
And I'm drunk, and I'm dialing, and you're drunk, and you're answering. And as lame and cliched and overdone as it sounds...I want the drama. I want the bullshit. I want the piss-poor attitude, and you not calling when you should, and telling me I'm a whore when I deserve it, and fucking me like I want to be fucked, and buying me some cheap dinner, and drinking all my liquor, and passing out all cracked out and drunk, in your bed, next to a half-finished beer, next to a glass of water, next to a cigarette, next to the time on the clock, next to me.
"I'm not insane! You're the insane one! Are you kidding me, Mr. 'I-Took-Home-a-Homeless-Boy'? Am I talking to the kid who had people sign his goddamn mattress before they left his house in the morning? If I'm insane, then you're a fucking lunatic!"
"Look: I've heard your stories, I know what you get yourself into. I'm telling you: normal people do not do that."
"I...well...no, they totally do! I don't know what you're talking about!"
"OK, listen: you have the potential to be totally insane. You're like a caterpiller waiting to burst out of your coccoon of crazy. You just need to embrace that crazy."
The thing that D.A.R.E. does not understand about drugs is that the most normal people do them. That kid next to you in class? Pops Vicodin. Does not have a perscription. The boy who works next to you? Snorts a rail every other day before work. Your friend from across the street? Grows pot in her closet. Was addicted to meth in high school. I grew up thinking druggies sold their plasma for the next hit and lived rolling in street corners and passing out in gutters.
Reality? Some of the smartest people I've ever known self-medicate with drugs and alcohol.
And me? Well, I've spent my entire life trying to be a druggie. And failing miserably. I do not understand how people simply "fall into" some awful variety of a meth habit. I call "Not Fair". Any actual goal I've ever had has been drug-related: I physically seek this shit out; I go to extensive lengths to obtain whatever drug has grabbed my fancy at the moment. I will do anything, anywhere, at almost any time. Fair or unfair? Unfair!!!
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck! I've smoked a pack of cigarettes, I'm twitching for more, and "Semi-Charmed LIfe" by Third Eye Blind has never sounded so beautiful in my entire life. Oh man, I don't want to come down, never again, oh, oh man, oh, but, god, but I can't do this again. Twenty-four hours and counting. Thirty-eight hours and couting. Twitching and turning and fuming through awful junkie sleep. The kids across the flip-flop section are staring at my puffy eyes dripping onto my jacket. Bloodshot. Dry. No sleep till Brooklyn or something like it.
"Just those," and her smile shows more teeth than it should and her eyes show more pity.
"Yeah. Just that." I don't merit a sad smile; I don't want a second glance. As the utter obviousness of my fuck-up seeps through my pores, lingers like the sick scent of mildew in the hallway, and clings to my every movement: Yes, I did it. Yes, it was wrong. Yes, I fucking love you.
"Fuck him."
"Are you kidding me? I think I actually love the kid."
"No, fuck him. Who cares; it's just him. Besides, you're just trying to get through life like the next person."
"Yeah man, I am. I am just trying to get through life. It's a point A to point B to points C and D kinda place. I don't want to waste it. And as far as love goes, as far as love goes...I don't know. Love isn't never having to say your sorry. And it's not something that you "just know" when you hit it. Love is love. It's what you do when you love someone. Love is forgiveness. It's fucking up like you never have before and still having a place to go back to. It's moving on, and coming back. It's boring and clingy and it's desperate and painful and you can't let go and I don't understand these cosmic connections between people and I hate it and I'm lonely and bored and you are happier without me and I hate it and I wish I had not lasted all these seconds outside the womb."
"And me? I guess I'm just trying to find someone else whose shit I can put up with who will put up with my shit too."
And I'm drunk, and I'm dialing, and you're drunk, and you're answering. And as lame and cliched and overdone as it sounds...I want the drama. I want the bullshit. I want the piss-poor attitude, and you not calling when you should, and telling me I'm a whore when I deserve it, and fucking me like I want to be fucked, and buying me some cheap dinner, and drinking all my liquor, and passing out all cracked out and drunk, in your bed, next to a half-finished beer, next to a glass of water, next to a cigarette, next to the time on the clock, next to me.