Astrology, and all of its ambitious spinoff’s are the spiritual equivalent of trying to get drunk on NA beer, or injecting junk after taking a dose of Suboxone; Its the unplanned orgy that never leads to a climax, or the re-watching of the series finale of The Sopranos. Each anecdote which gets consumed, pondered, then as fast as the last gasp of a 1942 Jew without a gas mask, dies and decays in vain. And so the merciless merry-go-round repeats and rekindles itself, all for the fuck-show and gusto that resonates in being in the beginning of things. Cheers to all those experiencing the wonderful wanderlust that are beginnings, happening at this precise moment.
The Chinese calendar, like most garden variety breeds of Astrology, provides each of its sectioned off calendar dates to the year in which you escaped the womb, an animal for a mascot, each offering up the usual and general list of attributes and weaknesses found in human behavior. My crawling from out the vagina occurred on March 21st of ’84, which happens to label me the lamest and most despicable euphemism in all the underworlds; a rat. A fucking beady eyed, rodent scavenger. How on this Godless green earth can I possibly spin such a sickening certainty so it sounds profound, or seems to gleam? Easy. Add drugs, of course. Nothing injects something extra into the ordinary image of ones self like drugs do.
Leading a life that literally relies on the lies of leeches, and mischief assistance all dope dealers offer, never would allow myself to be a part of the community of cowards the commonly interpreted slang which ‘rat’ embodies. Forgetting the foolery of the moral highroad involved or the lack of basic fucking loyalty of such a mutiny, I simply have required and just as much been too grateful for the dangerous games of an anchored vein, to be sabotaging future priests of relief to be turning them in to the police. Ha! The lone occasion I was recently propositioned with to turn states evidence after a drug raid had me answer as follows:
“Officers, agents, whatever brand of pork you might be, you say I am already busted and left with one fucking problem. If I do what you’re suggesting I will have several fucking problems, leading off with the fact that whenever I’m freed from your useless jail, I will absolutely, with 100% certainty, be seeking a fix; I will be foaming at the gums so profusely, you will swear a fucking Rottweiler ate a box of Elka-Seltzers. Now I doubt either of you two totalitarian swine will bring the syringe my binge will hinge from, so no thanks, pigs”.
Now for the cake batter of brain splatter. Modern, scientific research banged loud in the era of our baby boomers. So much so that they exalted the agony of the common rat, from zero to zenith; All we had to do was get the long tailed vultures completely stoned on government grade dope. Thats right, Ringo. Once the marvels of our minds were unraveled enough for the neurological geeks of the world to feast on, it was soon discovered that mice and rats, more or less have a micro-sized, replica version of our human brain. And since Uncle Sam is Captain Buzzkillington, it was decided by some nameless, dead white men, that we wouldn’t allow our everyday Amerikkkan humans the freedom to opt-in to the utopia of illicit drug analysis or research, but instead grant such a reward to the furry freeloaders known as rats. Since a shit-eating rat cant rig up or chop lines, the stooges in the CIA figured they’d just inject whatever the drug of the day happened to be, directly into the “pleasure center” of the brain. Yahtzee!
Instantaneous envy and rage rang from every junkies basement for the now renowned, literal rat pack. I have to imagine the sudden spike in the Buddhist belief of reincarnation amongst addicts, after the news of the newly numbed varmints leaked out to the masses. Once the target practice of every gun-owner, now the cock of the walk, I can practically picture droves of jones’n junkies, flocking in a frenzy to the nearest temple to ask Lord Buddha to be transfigured as such in the “life to come”. Drooling on themselves and fools to the wealth of the idea of returning as God Damned, but government-approved rats. Once a narc amongst thieves, now the arc of all beings, suddenly everyone loves a lab rat! And why not?
The chosen participants from the breed that are a reciprocating source of disease, are now moonwalking to a much different beat, baby. This isn’t Billie Jean, you grizzly, silly fiends. No more gutters and sewers for these gratuitous schmoozers. Now sunbathing under high pressured sodium florescent lighting, these rats are locked into the painless appeal stage of a stainless steel cage. You show me a real-deal addict that wouldn’t swap spots with these twats, and I will show you a snake-skinned liar. Every last needle freak I’ve never met, and half of those otherwise hooked on any type of tar, powder, rock or crystal, would gladly exchange their subhuman experience for that of a whacked out rat. If any doubt of this previous claim persists in you, take a trip to your local needle exchange or junky tavern (methadone clinic), and just ask any anonymous asshole you might find.
For good or ill I unearthed this epiphany at the ripe age of 18, just as my addicted expedition was revealing itself to myself. I wouldn’t just use and abuse these beloved drugs I was earnestly experimenting with, but dubiously donate my flesh and blood to the ultimate calling: The Human Lab Rat. You can bet your 2nd cousin’s 1st communion cash that I automatically allocated my entire being to the core expansion of ideas and experiences, through the vessel of combining chemicals. Mixing and matching, sniffing and scratching, sticking and gasping, all in the name of research and making memories, of course. In hindsight, it was rather insidious how one by one, the list of “never’s” became “yet’s”, which in turn became “again’s”, with each new form of intoxication yielding me with their ultimate rewards. Retract your hair back to reality, Rapundzle. Those of us who seem to be of a hopeless nature, felt as if we were being bitch-slapped by a prostitute the day the rewards seem to cease, and the consequences of such an experiment replaced those long forgotten perks of putting normality on the back burner. We lethargically learned that the sparks set off by our seemingly innocent antics, eventually, after being fueled by daily doses of toxic oxygen, started fires; And of the countless amounts of chemical reactions, the effects of an inferno cannot be easily reconstructed, and never duplicated identically.
Before I knew what had become of my ambitious but naive journey, my body had become some kind of dope addled drainage field. I cannot recall the day the haze became a daze, and all the colors became grey. With dozens of different, poisonous blends having been taken in, and no new niche to make my bitch, sometime in my mid 20′s, on my mapless atlas life-path, the punch once packed by these wondrous potions was lost. Gone for good and freebased in the fog were my aspirations to entertain strangers, under the influence of whatever they were offering. My once imaginary, limousine of a life now circles the block like a stolen Ford Tracer with expired plates, and the only axis I seem somewhat satisfied with spinning upon, is the glaring grin of Heroin. I wonder if that was in my horoscope? Ho-Hum.
So, bring no more crowds of imposters who pretend to pledge their allegiance, then send me their grievance. The party has long been over and moved on to patrons much more blissfully ignorant than I. I wont be buying anymore bridges from dream selling salesmen. Some days $100 worth of golden brown merely prevents me from shitting myself or strangling you while you sleep. My day-dreams lurk around all evening and its always the same image; A reaper staring at his watch. See, Im still starving to believe in the idea that Im just another ass in the stands or seat on the bleachers. No better, no worse. Just an everyday junky, struggling to even fight for a life he doesn’t yet know how to live. Here’s to the Lab Rats of my yesterdays and your tomorrows. May you never suffer the sour vengeance of the hour thats present; that being said, you’re better off leaving bleach stains, then remaining invisible.