Driving towards relief
The rarely seen, but always influential in the site’s evolution, Anarchy
Every over paid marriage counselor (which is every one that exists) will tell you that compromise and communication are the most important aspects to any relationship; Especially the relationship an addict has with the junk. No union exists that demands such a compromise of innumerable areas of your moral compass, than the relationship between a junky and his dope. Holy Fuck. What a sentence.
Toss the statistics and figures because they are always so desensitizing to the real and actual lives that those numbers represent. Not every hopped up sophomore in high school that hits a joint at a barrel party is going to end up in a Methadone Clinic or Suboxone Program. The fingerprints on the bloody knife are that while “scientists may have found a genetic link that would look at predisposition”, people whom are experimenting aren’t just going to know which is predisposed at which isn’t. Addicts are usually easier to spot long term than drunks for the simple fact they die quicker. No alcohol consuming American Male is going to be eager to say he can’t hold his booze and is, *gasp* an alcoholic. So its a crap shoot of sorts really when you’re taking that angle.
A certain population, say 10%-14%, with demographics showing no real bearing, which is an enigma in an of itself, however there is 13 of 100 whom once they “get off”, with whatever preference or opportunity (drug) came along, it plain and simply just works too fucking well for those 13. When the non-addicted dip-shit snorts his virgin line of coke at a college keg party, he very likely won’t think of it again the rest of the evening, and continue to be happy with his night of planned being drinking. Now Suzy-Q takes the same virgin line of blow at the same party and 45 minutes later she is scrambling like a game a tag trying to find what knight in shining armor gave her that magic dust, so she can do it over and over and over again. If she does’t locate the supplier (which would be unlikely) her entire fucking evening will be ruined at a level of disdain that language cannot actually articulate it’s pulverizing effect.
With the breed of banshees that this article really is focusing on is the umbrella’d group whom get their rocks off most enjoyed with the assistance of opiates. Whether it’s Tramadol or Heroin, the clinics and facilities truly don’t start making those kind, or any other distinctions until the addict has already began their Drug Replacement Therapy; Meaning, the amount of dose the addict starts at, in my own personal experience, wasn’t all that fluctuating. With Methadone, Wisconsin’s state max is 30mls. With Suboxone I always started with 3, 8mg pills. For a pill popper, those doses are like clouds that tickle your taint. For Heroin addicts those jump-offs don’t even chip the paint. It wash”t until I hit 200mls of Methadone did I get any “relief” lasting past noon. Relief is the junky jargon at the clinics that means how long you felt until you wanted real dope. Calling it anything else is just sprucing it up, undeservingly.
The biggest problem that both the Suboxone program and Methadone clinic’s alike have is that their clientele are drug addicts. Serious ones at that. It may seem like a conundrum and boy if it were ever so fucking easy to categorize as that, many lives would be calm. Jokes aside, it is 100% true. Eventually in these programs the “replacement therapy” or weaker dope if we want to be blunt, it just stops tossing the salad like it used too 2 months ago and so we start cheating on the love of our lives. We sneak a romp with a handful of benzo’s (Xanax, Klonopin, Valium) here and there. He clients keep a steady side chick of marijuana around usually, and it’s nothing to finger fuck flirt with a speed need here and there across clinic lines. This isn’t everyone and I feel compelled to make sure some of you morons will infer I am saying everyone on Drug Replacement Programming is getting high on on the side, and thats not true. That said, its well over half and probably closer to 75%.
There comes a time when you either screw the regrettable coed at the bar or leave her homely ass for someone more sideways than you, and here that homely whore ends up being stronger fixes than the Suboxone or Methadone for the clients involved. How long do you poke bears? Depends on how much backup you have. Here, the backup is real drugs. Having “one foot in and one foot out” is the most nut wrenching catechism you could ever let some Presbyterians dream up. Not really being sober but not being lit up the way you really like being; There is no worse stage to be in along the life of an addicted person. Almost all go through it for various time periods along their personal pathways to perdition. I personally am a 2 time Suboxone flunky and now am getting out of the Metro Methadone Clinic, though am actually tapering at record fucking speeds. Yeah, I am bragging a bit. To go from 400 to, well 80 this morning since Jan 1st this year. I’m some type of petri dish experiment, I know it.
Many in my carnival life have come to the conclusion that the only reason I am so vigorously coming off the Methadone this time around is to fulfill some self-fulfilling prophecy to go back and OD on Heroin before I turn 3o (March 21). I say that is a heavily layered assumption to have about another fucking individual and to no actually express their predictions mostly (not concerns) first hand but through the lakes and grapevines. Fucking Cowards. If you ever come to me and say you heard something about me, my life, or anything of the sort, and don’t have the basic level of decency to tell me where the information stemmed from, you are not my friend. To sit and hear slander and not allow me to distinguish immediately is not what friends do. Even I know that and I am a shitty friend.
After a week of being in whatever of the 2 Drug Replacement Therapy programs out there, you will KNOW if you belong or not, or if you are going to play the game since you’re there already. You know which way I chose each time… Ta-Ta….
Outside your core handful of cohorts, fuck over everyone you can; Because you can bet your morning’s last fix that if they haven’t thought of or attempted to fuck you over already, they will.
Its a tough gig ya know. Being the truth sayer in a land of lie lovers.
So long as those who continue to want uncut, unedited junky news and sweet psycho acoustic blues, I will sit with Anarchy wrist to wrist, blood to blood, scar to scar, and watch the world wander beneath us. Observing, calculating and reconstructing it in our own blended mind. Enjoy the show.
You see, I stupidly and was of a stoned kinda of mind while I agreed to go to the meeting spot of an A.A. meeting with Ambiguous Andy: The kind queer fellow with 37 years of sobriety, but then out of left fucking field last week takes three different man sized Colorado hits off 3 different strains of ganja after me being back in his dwelling and life (as the only change in his), full time for a months time. In essence I am his devils details and how off my cocks rocker does it make me that I can pull it off. $200 Friday this last 18th. $25 Monday the 20th, and then $600 Tuesday the 21st at Midnight, which if technicalities are at play, it would be the 22nd. The sources range from Sober Houses to Porn Trainee.
Anyway, even though the amounts have been outlined to the ambiguous Droid, watching his firm jawline (since its mental due to a sexy motorcycle accident in the 70′s), watch it hit the floor when he realizes what I can collect and how rapidly and steadily because I am an entrepreneur as much as I am a long-dicked opportunist, and that combination rarely leaves someone without sources of cash. They have a sweet tooth for fast action around this territory, darling, and Im the James Dean of Flaming Fiends.
I guess no one is surprised in the fucking minimal of degrees that I never came close to even giving it a Dutchmen’s effort to make it into the AA meeting. Andrew, curse and bless his wretched dick loving soul, he was faithfully stacking chairs and loading coffee for the St. Paul group of drunks on a Sunday with the air temp at 10 degrees, reciting like Pole Pot, preparing the upside down crucifixion of my lifespan just shy of three decades. I really am not or was not cut out for this absolute anything monologue , let alone sobriety. What a waste of potential life adventure, and selling yourself short.
The following morning at 3:00am I was awakened by Ambiguous Andy, not remembering nodding out for the final days rest, which is usually 2 hour spurts after which the body pains will wake me. Nevertheless Ambiguous beat the aches to waking me because I had forgotten somewhere on klonopin island that this Monday was Mr. Martin Lither King Day and considered a holiday at the methadone clinic. Holidays hours are 6:00am-9:30am. I don’t dose until 10 at the earliest of days so without an adaptation of plans, I would miss my dose and have to kill a clergyman. Because if there is one thing you don’t do is fuck with an addicts drugs.
Anyway, after awaking and realizing the fucker I was up against, I spiked the hawk, threw on the fresh pressed Guido Nike jumpsuit & white Eddy Lacy jersey with fresh Nike shoes and a fresh tagged Vans over hoody. Brushed the bicuspids and we hopped into the newly purchased, silver 2 seater Miata for 70 miles in 10 degree blowing snow baby. Midwest maniacs. This was, of course not before I tried calling my good pal Notorious who doses at the clinic and see if I could kill 4 hours with him until Ambiguous could be back from his job to get me. Relying on people is just below brain aneurysms but luckily I have aces. Notorious didn’t reply in necessary time to leave and get Ambiguous back on time but I reached DraYa, the DopeSick Diaries logo artist and she said I could relax there for 4 hours. Bam. We hit the highway.
After dosing and doing the daily fuckery at the Metro Tavern, DraYa was waiting and we went to her college housing unit, downtown. 20 minutes later, my african street pharmacist Phase called and asked if I, the person with no license or car registered in my name, whom lives 70 miles away and no way for Phase to know I was in town, could get his son to school with his wife. Oh sure. How about a trip to the laundry mat and fucking Home Depot too, doulja.
I got Phase’s son to school in a cab with his wife and he rewarded my chivalry with completely legal smoking tobacco, depending on what state your in. Anyway it was just another day in the life that is The DopeSick Diaries. This actually was fairly humdrum by most rubrics. This is the resting period before the riots. Tomorrow at midnight the real releases and relief will be rundown till sundown with my buzz and my love around. Ta-Ta..
I cannot tell you of the countless numbers of creepy, crock-of-shit for brains having, scholars of all brands,who ramble on about an infinite number of topics that no range of examples could do its encompassing and vast range any articulate justice. The scholars themselves being of such a roulette table of Babylon and randomness, no mind could believe the variety. Well, unless that mind belonged to a junky. A top tier, weird turned pro sort of addict, ya know. A mind such as Galentine’s.
Some of the unimpressive scholars being those of the actual academic breed; Whose green horns and damp rear ears, almost take away from them babbling on about their latest NPR discovery or fucking tidbit from BBC, like they’ve freshly humped the holy grail of underground sources in journalism, and made the wench squeal like a soccer mom.
Unaccomplished hipsters gives image to this gaggle of goblins, whose (lack) of skills couldn’t tell you the difference in dependance and addiction, and would likely scoff as they claim none to exist. Immediately after which, they post the occurrence on their preferred social media outlet as describing how they just whimsically jousted some jack off and are no less than 10 points more hip for it.
The other spectrum of know-it-all-know-nothings bases his infallible wisdom on the years of being enamored with such a group/topic/whatever; And that while they never really have been partaking in the content they pontificate on, the decades (usually) observing (perhaps to point of befriending certain individuals just to get a glimpse of it, outside looking in), make their points of view not only equal to anyone else’s, in some instances they go further and claim higher understanding, due to not diluting themselves with whatever the circumstances any lifestyle/belief/pattern/proclivity or any other topic that would be used as a platform for superiority. Codependent counselors would be an excellent example of this being a frequent occurrence.
When @FTWandUoo told me privately he was switching from methadone to Suboxone, and asked if I had any thoughts, I offered to do that which I have yet to do since this blog’s creation in October of 2013; I would take on the closest thing to a ‘request post’ as I have had, and aim its arrows at his questions and and concerns surrounding the switch from one drug replacement therapy to another. Why the fuck was I so eager to do a post on this day after the Sabbath Day where all Agnostics take the jewish day of rest and do nothing differently? Was it me whom was eager to pontificate on a topic I either read a dump-truck of theory on, or an issue I watched someone close to me fuck with the fringes of a free for all for? No, Darlin’. Perhaps the reason I offered to give this reader and fellow online aristocrat an exclusive piece of my past because it is just that. I lived it. It is a piece of my past as much as reused rigs and bisexual Bambi’s.
Shortly after I had my seizure from downing a couple of stolen Haldol from the 40 year old, black schizophrenic who was living in the halfway house I managed and whom I also was sponsoring in bis 12 step program, at that moment. Its the spiral of next circumstances that fucking pissed in my parade rain. Anarchy and I each took 2 of the psychotropic pills to help us come down and pass out on our DopeSick dilemma of like hour 30 of no junk, and she kissed me with her lashes and lips and left for the night. At Midnight the next day, March 19th, (Anarchy’s 22nd birthday) I awake alone in seizures, stopping my breathing every 20 or 30 suffocating and exhausting seconds, like getting bashed in the testicles by a 100 pound coke whore with a 9 iron on a testicle driving range. The seizures, which obviously were brought on by the bad reaction to a ultra high dose of Haldol, coupled with the stage the body physiologically was in, 40 hours into heroin detox. I endured pure and total agony of the seizures for 9 hours before I caved and called 9-11 on myself, knowing it was the cannon that would crumble the castle I created with Anarchy, and my pedestal would sink. I was on Suboxone from that day on until May. Last time I did it, I put 4, 8mg strips in a cooker, added 200 units of water, stirred and dissolved it, shot all 32 and I still didn’t “catch one”.
Jump ahead to July which lapse is well documented on the website, what with the 6 week freak-outs and federal arrests while running sober houses and blah blah blah. Point is an addict like me was never going to be satisfied by what Suboxone could give me and I headed back to the cesspool junky tavern that the methadone clinic is because I was at that level. Im not gonna rewrite it all, its all on the site, but they (the clinic) took me to 400 mills in 15 weeks. As of Jan 1st this year I have dropped from 400 and today my cocktail was 120. I know, Im an anomaly. A fucking weird drug robot that isn’t affected the same as others, as the RN said. My case is not typical and if you view my sites pics and posts can decipher I’m not a fucking member of Hitler’s Youth or a straight edge that doesn’t know how to help the landing be softer, ya dig?
Only you or maybe if you have an Anarchy or An Ambiguous Andy or Panda like myself to know what type of addict you are. You don’t have to be, and really shouldn’t try and live to be the enigma Anarchy and Galentine are, but someone should be able to tell you honestly without doubt if you’re the sort who could ever, in a million fucking dry humps be satisfied with Suboxone or not. If not, my cell is on my LinkedIn page and call me up, I could tell ya in 5 minutes or less. I’m not the writer who’ll say I hoped you took some part of my answer and it bettered your being because you fucking asked me and you’re assertive enough to tell me either way. Okay. Ta-Ta..
Ima gunslinging Starved type
junked up in bar fights
your every day, feather weights
take a swing of our life
i stash my past
with my masks and hash
you can find all 3
in my plaid back pack
this kid is saturated
you can chatter
how the bastard’s graded
cuz I’m so
timezones and iPhones
blindfolds on my goals
you cant see what i beleive in
I’m fiending what im needing
From needing Freedom
but no fatiguing
dream of me
but dont argee &
dope and weed
chokes emotions free
despite what youve seen
tonight has a theme
what you’ve seen
your highness and screams
sublimed by the beams
im what reminds you
of trying to be free
apply what you see
or die on the beats
we never die, why
survived by the streets
its like im healing
Or dealing with the wealthy
the soul is what i steal
whoever may tries to help me
if your better
then come and melt me
be-head and come & scalp me
if not shut the fuck up
and show me where the belts be
cuz im ready to gloat
give me some venom to smoke
like Freddy on coke
the levee has broke
send men for a boat, oh
expenses are low
its been spent on this show
call in reforcements
who are all in
from the porcelyn
remember all is fortunate
you alcohol abortionists
you smelling what im
from felons with enormous hits
nevermind that story
heres a forty
for ya ornery chick
relieve you of your porno wish
then leave you in the morning sick
indeed another boring chick
That we have left scorned and pissed
I’m the answer that you’ve feared
Looking at dancers in the mirrors
Perhaps a fast disaster
I’m like a cancer that’s been cured
Given lessons of defeat
So sexist in the sheets
Undressing all the freaks
Watch my surging takeoff
Immersing break off
Gods hardest con artist
Im lying, Honest
“The Magnum Opus for every junky is to be a highly desired, posh-sloth, whom is neither expected nor responsible for any single instance in their life. That is highest of all statuses in any and all druggy circles across the planet. To be entitled and anonymous, that is the honey’s eve tea, and oh what a dream.“
Only Included In The Picture Are: Sour Jolly Rancher Chewable’s
(2 Zip Lock Baggies full)
2005 Blackberry Curve with no camera
Custom E-Cig from E-cig Crib in Minneapolis
1 30ML bottle of Grape Frost (24mg/ML Nicotine) Juice
1 30 ML bottle of Blueberry Chill (24mg/ML Nicotine) Juice
Zebra colored E-Cig case converted into makeup case
Beats Audio case converted into sunglasses case
Sour Patch Kids-Watermelon Slices
Wooden Jar of natural Anxiety Aids
Glass Jar of natural shisha herbal incense
1 Ounce of ROTO eye drops
Medium sized, open notebook
Nothing twinkles my toes like the backhanding of a big mouthed brute. This world needs balances and checks, structures and regulations, but what it doesn’t fucking need is wide hips with coal souls. I won’t lie (about this) and tell you I didn’t get a half hard mental boner on Wednesday, after I was treated like common filth from Spazz, the weakest link (which considering her girth is ironic) of the Metro Methadone Clinic’s counseling constituents. Is it sad, or is it sensual that when my cynicism is exemplified and verified through real life occurrences, I am often delighted more than I’m disgusted. Perhaps its just the satisfaction of yet again being accurate in my assessments of human behavior that strokes the shaft of my frontal cortex.
This past hump day, Wednesday the 8th, had my morning in its crosshairs to fuck up the congruent theme the week began with. On Wednesdays at the Metro Dose Bar (Methadone Clinic), the hours of operation, which is the clinical term for “passing out dope to the areas junkies” run from 5:00 until 10:00am. This is an hour and a half less than usual weekdays, due to the dope clinics weekly staffing falling on Hump Day. Since this horrible reemergence into Methadonia, I have never been late. Not once. Today however was going to be close.
My brother in arms, Ambiguous Andy, who drives me daily aside from the weekends when Panda carriages my cold corpse to dose, drives bus and isn’t home from his route until 8:45am. The clinic is 80 minutes from our castle if you’re moderately breaking traffic laws. Being the beautiful, brilliant tho sometimes brainless addict I am, had forgotten it was Wednesday and was casually adding eye liner and switching shoes for no reason. Ambiguous quickly reminded me of the days name and in 5 more wasted minutes we were flying in the silver 6 speed roadster, southbound and stricken with anxiety that should we be too late, the horrid fucking mess of all messes that articulates the sight of a junky who misses their methadone dose, would be our reality the next 24 punishing hours. Especially an addict like myself that is tapering at a speed disliked by 90% of the clinics staff (because my rate is a daily, rapid taper which gets me out sooner and the clinic $18/day poorer).
I decided 10 minutes into our top speed travels that lying was the only way I could pull off showing up after dosing hours and even have a chance at getting my dope. To think exceptions get made often in the mafioso mentality the methadone clinic is based on, is an uneducated assertion. They are cash cows. Period.
The lie was innocent enough. A victimless long truth you might say. I was to call the clinic when I hit the freeway, which is 50 mins from the front door of the clinic, and tell them the county road leading to the freeway was addled with a 3 car pile up and multiple units slowing and sometimes stopping traffic. The accident stalled our already 75 minute trip another 30 because the wreck had children involved, and what looked like an uninsured el camino as the pile-up’s perpetrator, in a pair of ash stained Dickies with a “roll your own” Gambler cig in his prison tatted hand. Hey, I needed this to be a story the person on the other line is just like, “Yea fuck it come as soon as you can”, Which is exactly what happened. The RN on staff answered and said okay they’d let the door person know. Jackpot…Almost.
The stench in the wench was that the days door person was Spazz Ass. My well documented nemesis at the clinic. A patron walked out the door at 10:13, when I tried to walk in, she slammed my fashionable combat boot with all 230 of her inertia and moaned with a horses groan that I was too late. I then, calm as a cockroach in Queens, explained the call I made to the RN, to which she groaned again that they weren’t even dosing any longer and I would have to suffer until tomorrow and to remove my foot from her door. Exact words. I immediately called the clinics number on my cellphone, which was orgasmically answered, contextually speaking by The Director of the clinic. I gave her a comment on the pleasant greeting she answered the phone with, since she never is the employee on phone duty, and went over the accident, how I immediately called and that the RN said door person would be notified. She put me on hold for no more than 33 seconds and cooingly invited me in to quickly get my dose and commended my diligence in doing all I could. I could have cunt punched her camel toe I was so enthralled, not only with The Director’s benevolent act and basic human kindness, but more so at the rhino running around, soaking in her sulky stained G(inormous)string. The backhanded bitch-slapping ol’ Bird Brain became victim to, is the nectar jolly ranchers and heroin come from. Pure, posh pride, doll.
Nuisances like Spazz Ass are awful in many ways, like the rest of us, however, where she differers is that she is that type of terrorist that must make their bullshit, yours; And this is done so by any tactic, including belittling the drug addicts she took an oath to serve selflessly. Belittling based upon a false and fraudulent superiority assumption, while many whom dose daily at the metro, such as myself, have high credentials in her very field; Both in academics and life in actual life experience. Cut that from her putrid pessimism that keeps all her clients anxious as hell, and a piercing delivery that leaves Gilbert Godfried searching for his Gucci earmuffs. A total fraud, failure and worst off oblivious. May the house fire happen in her happy home, for no reason other than her having to live as many of her clients have for years. Now that would be justice.
Just before publishing this, I had to document my Freudian epiphany. This whole incident occurred on Wednesday, the week’s HumpDay. Its more obvious than ever that Spazz Azz and her blatant bitchiness is nothing more than her knowing that yet again, her Hump Day would be like the last 43; Watching Biggest Loser with her hazelnut dildo and craigslist messages.
Anytime I see a lame-duck politician bring his family or staff down due to the lame quacker’s actions, I upchuck the bile my bowels bathe in. No one likes a tattle tale, hater whom is jealous and ripe with envy. As a gentleman on bail, my finest moments of articulation cannot spell out the disdain for a do-goober nagging narc ass I possess.
How about when the perpetrator is the very institution hustling off the Pepto pink methadone each day? And when I say perpetrator, I mean enough so that the DEA has launched a full fledged fuck for all and they were kind enough to send yours truly a letter spelling it out so basic, I could explain the gist of it to a down syndrome dolphin. Best piece of this puzzle is my pictorial proof I must release to fulfill my role as serious journalist.
I challenge anyone to show me mainstream coverage in either regional or local daily rags, but the 6th grade girls swim team has a new diving board worth a glance I hear, according to the Leader Telegram.
My favorite part is the total blatant wording that unapologetically states the HIPPA confidentiality laws mean no more than the ink they are printed in. If the feds want any and all records, medical, from a treatment center, why waste the first assessment,that costs $300, assuring the safety of the information collected in “your recovery”.
So, how does the neighborhood dose bar get a federal indictment?
The Dr presiding over all the doses in the 350 patient clinic was 75, half blind, closet queer who instead of just being a homo; His repressed desires and huge degrees of control, were carried out and over an ultra vulnerable stable of young junky females whom he would get extra frisky in the intake physical. After that and a month or so to get the young pop-tarts at a few hundred mills of ‘done each day; Then have the same blitzed out bimbos come to his private practice where he would prescribe anywhere from 30 to 90, 2mg Xanax bars. The real deals, no Alprazolam generics for his blackout Bambi’s. Without going into a long pharmacology dissertation, just know that there isn’t a more lethal and guaranteed disaster looming when mixing methadone and Xanax, and any other Benzodiazepine. Even more messy than booze and benzo’s and thats as bad as it gets with the asshole still breathing; But thats just it, the propensity to not wake up when mixing the aforementioned cocktail is higher than any other, that my 18 years has taught me.
Best part is I had this letter when I reentered the clinic in July and brought the document with me, then pulled it out and acted aloof and clueless like some of the hens and asked what the subpoena meant. The poor wiseness of the secretary was obviously not prepped for such an ambush that she have no more privy to the answers I would ask than the beaner shining wingtips at the airport.
are all too mystic
fallen misfit with a calling
who spits on their litmus
are you starting to get this
he seems to be cherishing
ripping at the seams and the fiend
retrieve the belief
of a terrible scene
confident and cunning
nonchalant, its Hum B
fooling whom he’s school with
and monster that he’s numbing
that Eve’s a fruity fiend
she keeps eating Adam’s apple
even Moses knows
the wheels are peeling
off their axels
pardon the heathens
this garden-less Eden
alarmed at what your seeing
its the start of something Ethan
Welcome ladies and gentle sin
ill be your tour’s vampircal host
a spiritual hoax
like the dirtiness of urgentness
like the perks of sex on Percocets
the lies are high and lively
I’m actually dying
getting highs off anhedonia
like the blind eye of bribing
time always finds those hiding
I’m gonna show them now
never growing up
until I’m cold & lowered down
according to what the creeps say
he was arrested on leap day
bourbon type bravery
amtracks on each vein
when never arrives
where do you hide
for there are no stores
where you can score enough more
Any sensual bliss in the world,
that he can mention its hits in this world
it isn’t worth one million shavings
of the bliss of this ending of craving
When nothing, and I mean nothing inspires or challenges my psyche anymore, no person or place excites, no thought or idea provokes, it is then and especially then, that change is necessary and potentially looming like an unhappy marriage headed towards extra affairs. Unfortunately for anyone that loves me, there hasn’t been a “fast forward” button to press and my threshold, nor does such rapid moving fate happen for anyone else either; Added to the ambushing is how thick my threshold for bullshit has become. That kind of combination is the reason no bridges in my rearview are left without some scorching. The few left standing at all, are as rickety and raggedy as any you might find in an Indiana Jones action outake, with sleazy extras and stunt buffs to boot. A little reenactment of a script-less, subpar plot, populated with B-List bimbos and Bambi’s to play the parts re-written to fit the bill of belligerence for a French speaking house boy carrying an attitude and a .38, just in case the henchmen try pocketing the hors d’oeuvres being passed about the to plastic pirañas. The flying fish would need an ejection seat to bring comic relief to the humdrum hangover hovering over our heritage.
🅾utlasting the storm of a creative overcast can be a bird more lonesome than any dove from above or below the spaghetti western of all westerns . The arts of creating are this Earth’s most cleverly disguised conundrum since feminine men found eye shadow to be beneficial and conservatives convinced their constituents that the way to hate queers is by secretly being one. That’s right, Rhonda. Once the Moonlight Drives are just late-night taco stops, and the once flowing poetic mouthpiece donned by your rebel writer, is now just another nagging, male menstruating matador. The propensity to resort back to crass and calculating cravings climbs the silk curtains and marble countertop(less), and this alien’s end is elbow room away.
💲uddenly I sense myself as dialing up a dose of Histrionic Personality Disorder (Borderline’s pre Madonna cousin who differs most in that the Histrionic’s uncanny conniptions are done for attention, while the Borderline’s outlandishness is performed out of the fear of abandonment, stemming from childhood anxieties of whether or not they had their parents love), though fabricated as the ass of a firefly, very much actual in symptom and system.
The clown shoes we unwittingly wear when we’re captivated by (any type of) craving, makes sideshows of us all. While feeling the grandiose gasses building up in our bowels as we try and tip toe around the egg shelled tight rope, the urges of urgency devolve our rank as food chain champion to common, impulsive ingrates. Many millions with malnourished minds have made mental love in the cathedral of coitus and other cravings, mere moments after a doctored up declaration of how such failures were a blast of the past, never to rear their ugle heads and heartless hard-ons again. Thats the kind of fuckery our queen of quarantine carries with a curtsey and a cartoonish can of ass kissing on hand, to keep the qualified quiet and the gay and strays at bay.
Once alive and recovered
from this rekindling, reckless repairing
under cover fucking smothered
and the curing of craving,
that melted minute
we drop our dicks back into saint sinners
covered in paint thinner
fuck you ad your steak dinner
our aching livers, ain’t pale faint figure
fades to black yet again.
Ms. Winehouse knew the score as I calculate it.
There are no shortages of temptations
to crave like enslaved angels
; but should you sidestep with a high neck,
your average yield of cabbage fields,
become cloned and toned, sold and loaned
to the fear filled puritans
who don’t feel the spear within
The leaf’s life is a neat flight,
free from cravings and misbehaving, dancing under street lights.
worry-less like its a bourbon fest, no stress, unless, you all confess,
to the burgundy mess on the poor girls pearl burned dress. You’re MURDERESS!
©ravings will dwarf the insanity brought upon by jealousy or any of the other putrid and pretty deadly sinful celebrations for this reason alone: When the junky or other animal whose equally jones’n is locked in the stste of craving; All of life and deaths darkest frames of mind and matter, are encompassed to quench the craving and net the dragon.
When your entire life has been one attempt at resistance after another, the most rebellious act left to carry out is acquiescing to the way life fucks and flows by.
After a month of nagging and pleading to the artist we’ll call DrayA, I’m proud to unveil the concept design for the logo of The DopeSick Diaries.
Depending on what the logo will be put on will determine which color scheme might be used, so I’ll give you the Black & White template we are excited to start using on merchandise and other promotions.
Without further ado, we present to you, The DopeSick Diaries logo:
Now, Im not the type of tyrant that spits and pushes, and tells you its lube. Not me, Jimmy Dean. Im not hear to give you polished passages by any means, but where my curtains differ from the douche’s in disguises is I find no benefit in doing the salsa on eggshells and just articulate boldly and free of misinterpretations or chance at misleading you. You’ll either love me for it or learn from it. What other memoir or slice of social commentary can say the same? Only the ripest.
This is where the bulk of the common senseless get all revved up and are eager and intrusive as they announce their want for facts and truth. “Straight shooter” is a common adjective that gets self imposed by the self righteous simpletons, because like a large number of folks, they cannot communicate in ordinary back and forth exchanges. Instead, after the unnecessary insertion of raising the decibels, while 3 or 4 low barks replace the exchange of unique thought or provocative ideas. Grunts and groans are the new doomed obstacles.
The average and every day nobody wants to want the truth, whatever the cost or consequence. But deep downstairs, past the cellar dwellers and elf urchins, those same nobodies no more want uncut, flatline honesty than they want me getting kinky with their families 18 year old boy/girl twins. A real raunchy rendition of Rudolph, where the the red nose is running with cocaine mucus and heroin snot, and the sleigh is a gay shaley, rising up, up and away. The masses want the magic muted and a vacant noose for those who shake up ancient rules. The truth sayers are taken to the outskirts of town, beaten by brutes, and left penniless and nude without a compass or a cock-ring.
Often this display of ostrich behavior extends into the clinically-coy realm of AODA counseling. Several victims of my decade-thick caseload have fit the bill to a tee in their quest for fluff puff awareness, and each were surgically dismembered through mental humiliation and scholastic inferiority. That’s not even paying a winks worth of homage to the obvious handicap in life experience in context to my addicted life-form. But enough of those shrapnel sandwiches, because my latest and greatest counselor of arms whom we’ll call Mystique is a rare raven that sincerely and begrudgingly bows to needing information unedited. This pairing of client and countess, er, counselor didn’t occur by a handpicked chance. It was after I had cancelled Slother’s services, was rejected by Spazz Ass, and finally taken on feverishly by a zeal only existing in fresh fish. Mystique, while not new to the field of practice, had just been acquired by said clinic maybe 90 days ago. I admired her ambition for leftovers, you might say.
Where all this brilliant background is leading too is that since I began my MSW (Medically Supervised Withdrawal) off methadone, Mystique has really been the only set of ears and solid enough of a conscience to hear my thoughts and opinions on the matter. Tragic this is so considering the magnitude of the minefield, that methadone withdrawal is described as being and documented by in its painful examples. The process a junky must go through to come down on their methadone dose compared to increasing their dose is the equivalent of scoring pharmaceuticals off the street as oppose to jumping the hoops of copping through your doctor. Yea some hiccups happen buying from the street, but all in all you know as certain as Judas was getting voted off the island that the supply never totally runs dry; While the hoop humping and hurdle fucking in seeing an actual psych then shrink to get your pills, is never a locked in scenario. So yea, the clinic makes it a miserable mind-fuck to lower your dose.
First a 1 on 1 with the counselor (Mystique), where the reasons for wanting to drop are articulated and a fiduciary commitment to outline potential risk factors are carried out. No problem. Then the blue balls of bowing the head and meeting with Director Babysitter to essentially duplicate the doldrums of the initial doom and gloom of how daily dose dropping is wicked Wonka WASP venom. After I repeated my affirmations astutely, Director Babysitter granted me allowance to drop my dose daily. How harmonious my hollow heart might hum if all that bushwhacking was the final feast of fuckery tied into this basic adjustment. Oh, fountain wishes and unicorn kisses.
Bad enough that 3 separate appointments had to be made (and when the demographic most prevalent at said facility is without transportation), each waste of water that flushed down the shit from those involved was an unnecessary repetitive due to identical hyper-analyzing of hypotheticals, once again yielding nothing new. All these idioms already and still the locomotive of lunacy hasn’t reached its maximum vacancy because now the dingo dose dealers in doctor drag find it irresistible to insert their personal pond water into my streamlining sea current. The true fucking pity is that if I were a less weathered, green-horned, ambitious amateur in the drug world, there is no doubt that my feet would freeze, my confidence melt, and I’d have been talked into staying at my max dose and consequently falling further into the Pepto-Bismal cesspool of one foot in/one foot out, boner barricading, liver lava Methadonia.
Shame on you Metro Methadone Clinic. For wanting me saturated as an aging piece of roadkill, with no old wounds because the easily bruised saran-wrap skin has the yellow’d over with a jaundice camouflage. To keep me a skeleton picked clean by every scavenger whose needed a snack these last few months. Not this junky. This bird of prey is flying the coupe while the other mackerels cackle, tied to the roof.
Today a two for one with Song Lyric/ Poetry Saturday, finishing the weeks trend of poetry, song writing and hymns of the disease. Every so often my mind goes into binge writing and this weeks purge was in the lyrical department. A nice switch every so often. Anyway, Enjoy them as I do.
50 Cent Solution
numbing down streams
we sailed once before
drop your anchors
& dock the tankers
birds of blurry colors lead to
a flock of neighbors
care to wager
or spare your anger
fury and the focused
bury the hopeless
with bare knees & coke lips
lets window shop
with bricks and burned bras
this dick is a gold flaw
Scan the sunday funnies
For a worthy fucking cause
This devil gets his discount
when his fellows sell a risked amount
statues are too bashful
so sell em with their dicks out
thoughtless as a thorn-bush
sexy as a Studebaker
when im nesting yes we lure later
strong as 6 or more, sycamore’s
however this schism scored
a 50 cent shell
we wont be sick no more
From ‘The 4th Floor Melodies’ Collection…
This little doozy
A tale of 2 Susie’s
One wound up tight
The other bound more loosely
walks spun & high strung
always blue, boo-hoo without a clue
1 full of panic
2 is much less manic
But awfully depressive
The days revolve around
The mold she is holding
1 minute ice cold
Next moment she is boiling
Now before your upset
with your somethings to say
While there might be 2 Susie’s
They’re one drug of the same
Susie one loves as she
scrubs tubs and cleans the house
Until susie 2 comes through
and schlubs on each couch
Damn your 2 Susies crap
You lured me in trouble
Go back to your nooses trap
And thorazine shuffles
why do i shiver when i see you
come hither let me feed you
all the glitter you can gleam through
so im not bitter when i see you
we are past the place
of after taste
getting you to love what you once hated
is half the chase
the other half is subtle gasps
smothered laughs and druggy naps
love me like a brother
you could fuck and understand
love me like the mother
that you drug under the sands
the castle is crumbling
the castle is crumbling
one bastards dungeon
its no wonder he is numbing
when all their gods
are profits & facades
his image is dimming
all thats left is this mirage
dont enter my bubble
a sexist mess of trouble
have you ever tried to sleep, you sheep
while trying to hide
a crying freak, petite
underneath your sheets
or just above the ceiling
dont cha love the feeling
of believing what you’re being
an orchestra worth hearing
on their porches with their sneering
with flamers and fires
we aim with desire
take the pain
make it brighter
inhale the shame
lit with the lighter
the next tale
ms. me being crispy
when your next sex gets stale
wheres the order
wheres the line
tortured life on an orchard vine
whose sort of fine
fucks with your world
as soon as I’m bored with mine
think you got me where you need me
as you leave me by the gallows
just don’t want me too deeply
or need me too shallow
Its a constant push and pull
pour until half full
leave the guilty silky
us wolves who dress in wool
she scowls at the groom
as we’re howling at the moon
she was due at noon
and shes still moaning at 2:00
Here he sits, on top of his mountain of manifestations, ready and eager to try a drastic switching of the cards. An absolute and total overhaul from the basement to the attic, replacing all that is static. And so what is there left to do but send this year of 2013 to the gallows. I thought 2012 would be the rankest year my short life would ever have to endure but boy was I underestimating the depth this planet has for scum sucking serpents. The tolerance for tyranny once again out measured its previous capabilities.
If 2012 was the year of the aloof and afraid, then 2013 was its skanky twin sister; ready to fuck you over the second you shut your eyes. Never before has altruism been met with such agony; benevolence rewarded with belligerence. Biting the hand that feeds you somehow became the norm. The gift horse was raped, roasted and rekindled over and over again, and just as soon as you’d expect the beating to be over with, you’re getting hauled away in a federal cop car due to information received from a weasel whose life you saved. Thats right honey, no one was off limits this year.
You cannot get something for nothing and never has this ageless epitaph garnished more wages in this junky’s life than 2013. Whether its drugs, women, cars, clothes, men, or all the above, if anything you should desire seems its been acquired too easily I beg of you to follow this simple command: run. That’s right motherfucker, run. Run like you’re being chased down by rabid animals because I can promise your conscience you are doing just that. Whether or not you feel the bullseye on your back, I assure you its there. If this miserable year taught us anything, its that not only are you in the crosshairs, but the fucking bullseye is probably being aimed by your most trusted confidant.
The year didn’t start off this askew or predestined for failure. Quite the contrary. 2013 was brought in, with its first 8 weeks being a sort of drug addled hit parade. Travels to New York to visit my sister highlighted the beginning and returning from the east to engage with Anarchy in ourqq own little rendition of a Hotel California, without the palm trees or Pacific beaches. Ours commenced along the Mississippi riverbeds and had you suggested even in the first week of March that the year 2013 was to be anything shy of spectacular, such ideas wouldn’t have been granted a moments notice or the slightest bit of consideration. We were kicking life’s ass, day by day. We were invincible.
The rapid unraveling of our yawn initially began the 3rd week of March, when after shooting junk for a 3 day stretch, we were in that desperate grasp of just trying to knock ourselves out. We had acquired some Haldol, a powerful tranquilizer used for the overly abrasive and psychotic. What a bloody fucking mistake. After 4 hours of taking the devil drug, alone in my upstairs lair, my malnourished body began convulsing, rapidly jerking and shaking itself like an epileptic with a light saber. To add to the convulsions was a deep planted back spasm pattern which felt as if the Wolverine had impaled my filthy kidneys with his 10 inch razor nails. Worse was the underlining fear that this newly acquired handicap was going to sustain itself as the new norm! Was I really damned so much so that now my fate as a wheelchair-ridden spaz was to be accepted? 9 hours of seizure after seizure, until noon hit and I finally called 9-11. I tried everything inside my minds eye before calling the paramedics, because I knew that once the manager of the Sober Houses is hauled away in an ambulance, the party as I knew it would be over, and we would change forever.
I disappeared into detox for a week, and returned to the houses, both filled with embarrassment as well as relieved. No more was I under the thumb of the petty alliances I had built up around us to protect our double life. The “plan” was to have me work behind the scenes with the houses, forfeiting my role as shot caller and money manager, and certainly no longer the face of the company. I lied and said I was excited for the new, less stressful role, while in actuality I could have hurled on command at the mention of such of demotion, had I any calories to upchuck. To go from the grandstanding puppeteer to the bum who pulls the curtain was the only way my polluted mind could ascertain what was happening to my fortress, kingdom, and world I had carefully crafted. If I had simply cut the losses as they were and moved away in peace, well, then this wouldn’t be The DopeSick Diaries.
2 miserable months of having to act like “everyone else” at the Sober Living community was proving to be too much for my pride and patience. The tipping of the scales came on a May weekend that had Anarchy out of state with family. It always came to pass that whenever she would be away for a few days, I invariably acted out of order. This blunder would prove to be a notch cut deeper. A salt-soaked wound. You see 2013 was the year of Ultimate Betrayal. The initiating example came a rodent we will call Chrome Dome. A brief description is that Chrome Dome came to me while I was still the manager, broke and homeless with no food or job. In 2 months he was back on his feet and so much so that he was healthy enough to tell the police officer that had him pulled over that if the cop went to room such and such at the whatever hotel in town, the manager of the Sober Houses is having a heyday. That’s right, Rudolph. How do you like that? Ratted out by a rodent who hadn’t a piece of cheese before I showed him the cheddar. Minutes after he spilled his gutless stomach, the hotel room I was in was flooded with federal, state, as well as the local bacon patrolman. The betrayal brigade had began its march through our muddy waters.
Once I was pushed to outskirts of town by the local klansmen, torches and battle hymns in tow, I found myself subscribing to my old friend death wish inside the walls of my littered hotel suite. 6 weeks of succumbing to any poison being peddled, I was locked in on losing it all. What did I care? I went from local superstar to neighborhood nuisance overnight, so to Hell with any ideas of salvaging this shit pile. Against my will to die alone, I was offered a life jacket from a friend to the east and it was as undeserved as it was ingenious. It gave me the ideal surroundings to get off junk and give this game one final quarter.
All things considered the unexpected revival went swimmingly for far longer than anyone could have predicted. However, 2013 and the year of betrayal would prove to be unaltered despite the moments of recent triumph. This time the attacks would come from the hands and heartlessness that only a mother could orchestrate. That’s right. Just as soon as I had been clean for 3 months or so, my mommy-dearest found it necessary to disturb and dilute and of the filtered watered my life had cleaned up. See, mommy doesn’t like this blog. She hates it because its uncut and actually honest, both attributes her narcissism cannot stomach. For some reason she feels as if my downward spirals will give a reflection of her and her parenting. Like I said, narcissism, but anyway mommy dearest decided to show up to my court hearings and scream to the ceiling about how much of a danger I am, since, *gasp* , I take methadone! It’s bad enough she tried sabotaging my court proceedings and luckily the judge isn’t half the imbecile my mother can be and actually the gavel man is thrilled at the drug’s success within my life; But mommy’s arrow aiming didn’t cease there. She found it appropriate to call around town to employers of my son’s maternal relatives and expressing the danger the family is in due to my methadone maintenance/ drug replacement therapy. All of this from a woman with a masters degree.
So much betrayal, such little time. As I logged in an earlier entry, I was sold out by a long time partner in crime for a quarter gram of meth, attacked by a dyke with penis envy and a list of other assaults of character, all of which came from the hearts of those I once helped a hundred times back again. No good deed goes unpunished I have heard, but alas, I’ve now lived it as intensely as any poor bastard might. Somehow I have sidestepped the suicidal ideation that would be more than appropriate considering the aforementioned misery, which doesn’t even calculate half of the examples. Some of the news surrounding my health could fill anyones quota for quitting but here I sit, similar to 365 days ago, scribbling about the theme of the last 12 months. How much empathy does the planet have left? How long our are attention spans for the consideration of others? Or have we went from the comatose condition of 2012, to the over zealous back knifing of 2013, never to be a balanced act again? Its as if we either say nothing as we see a child entering traffic or we usher them into the danger and run them over ourselves. Nothing in between.
It hard not to wonder what the wine that once was water will taste like in 2014. Surely not as bland as ’12, but nothing as bitter as 2013 should be anticipated either, right? Who really can say? In typical fashion I will freelance the fun, one word at a time and in proper form will be starting my 2014 with a tidal wave of change. See tomorrow I will begin my taper off of methadone. Currently I take the state’s limit of 400 mills each day, and starting tomorrow at 0530 hours, I will begin the maximum taper allowed of dropping 15 mills each day. Most junkies drop 5-10 mills each week when they decide to taper. I know better. I know I’m much too marinated in my medication to pussyfoot the process and expect any sort of success. So I must approach this tramp the way I would any other. Rudely, crudely, and full of amped up attitude. I was fortunate to have the clinic when I stumbled in, though I cannot sustain myself on the fringes of any society. Half in, half out, not really clear headed but not as cloudy as it could be. Nonsense!
However you decide to costume yourself Sir 2014, I will be steady in my discernments. Maybe more so than any other time I am prepared for any awful outcome, because there is nothing that can be tossed into my bubble that hasn’t blown me or blown up before me, thus far. I expect the empathy tanks are drained and empty for an androgynous, queer loving commy junky that daunts makeup and self mutilates. That’s okay, as its expected. The world has been taken over by phonies who scream liberal songs and altruistic hymns until whatever circumstance touches their own family and then they pucker tightly like asshole of a country conservative who can’t admit he likes his love button penetrated. That’s right, this whole nation of “liberals” that love the rooftop hollering of equality, except in matters concerning their own (in) security, can burn baby burn. Perhaps when their asses turn ashes, something sustaining can resurface. It’s the last grasp left. Ta-Ta. For better or worse…
The allure within anonymity, always trumps the thirst for attention
Not every seed sprouts. Not every tree bears fruit. The cloth of which the counselors at the methadone clinic I frequent are cut from, wasn’t evenly proportioned in competency and basic skills. Sometimes I wonder what type of vocation a few of the hens would hold, if it wasn’t possible to divert their codependency and morph it into the AODA field. Some belong in a kindergarden classroom, not necessarily as an educator but more so as a student of the basic respect and decency little tikes get taught when they’re five. It isn’t all snacks and naps in preschool, nor should it be as a counselor in a methadone clinic. Unfortunately for the counselor we’ll call Spastic Ass, the skill level she possesses as an AODA/Methadone therapist rival the balance of a boozed up billy goat; Though her upper lip might have more facial fuzz, but never mind that.
Spastic Ass is the quintessential career codependent that became a counselor not to help those who are seeking recovery. Her motives are the all too common diversion technique, where instead of using the position as a platform to help sick addicts, she pontificates her superiority as a non-addict to belittle, criticize without investigation, and gets a daily dose of artificial pick-me-up from pushing her weight around. She despises those of us that are more educated, better looking and socially adept. She adores the dirtbags she can coo too about her inability to afford Claritin. Seriously.
Always the complainer, Spazz-Ass cannot help but complain about every and anything that makes her hip huggers uncomfortable. I once timed ole’ Spazz Ass from the time she opened the clinic doors till her first complaint. She made it 15 seconds before announcing the agony of how crowded the clinic was. 15 fucking seconds. When the clientele you serve, as a whole, has had life threatening addictions most their lives, the last characteristic we want to see from a supposed leader/staff member is silver spoon whiny pessimism. She is the only counselor at the clinic that I can say with full fledged honesty has never enriched, edified, or taught me a single thing. Addiction aside, she has failed to convey any knowledge upon myself and thats pretty pathetic. Even the junkies who are drooling after they dose have given me more insight than Spazz Ass.
If it was merely her under qualified persona, white trashy vocabulary, and negative cloud she purposely hangs above her split-ended horsehair I wouldn’t give her the honor of gracing this site’s format. She’d get tossed (by a bulldozer) into the pile of regular rejects that I encounter day in and day out. It was her clear violation of confidentiality and ethics that qualify her as the loser of the day.
See, Saturday morning I handed my buddy “J” a $5 bill I owed him, and gave him $10 more to go grab me cigarettes when he headed to the store after group. Spazz Ass saw the exchange, since it wasn’t hidden, since it wasn’t illegal and muttered something under her jelly doughnut breath. Well, my days activities at the clinic ended sooner than I expected and I wrote a note for “J” that was delivered to him by a different, sane counselor, stating I had to get going and that I would see him the following day. That’s it. As harmless as a handshake. But not for Spazz Azz who, this week is acting (poorly) in place of the clinics director whom is on vacation. She ostracized “J” in group, saying we were portraying a drug deal and that clients can be kicked out for such behavior. Umm, what?
Aside from the fact that she is forbidden to even mention my name to another client, to threaten and embarrass a client in front of group, over the canceling of a ride, shows the bird brain back biting this bulldozer bitch is capable of. I calmly confronted her illegal and unethical actions privately Sunday, to which she replied, “Well, anytime addicts hand each other money I automatically assume its a drug deal”, then kicked me out of her musty office that reeked of saturated fat. Really? First of all, the addicts at the clinic are there for methadone to stay off of other drugs. Second, plenty who attend the clinic haven’t had a single relapse and weren’t even addicted to illegal drugs to begin with. Many ended up dosing because their pain meds became insufficient. Third, what an ignorant hillbilly outlook on the people you’re supposed to be helping. If our own counselors are generalizing and acting discriminatory, how the fuck can we expect society to catch up and view addicted people as sick, rather than criminal?
I filed a pointless grievance which, if it makes it past the paper shredder, will be viewed by the director and tossed in the recycling bin. We’ll see though. The calmest person in an exchange is always in control, and Spazz Ass is always the most hyper/tear pouring pathetic twit that loses respect amongst those she serves every time she opens her fast food inhaler. She hates herself (for good reason) and this is indicative by how terrible her approach to AODA manifests itself. She embodies everything that is wrong with treatment centers and therapy. It’s always about her problems, which to be fair, dwarf the misgivings most of the monsters of the morning possess.
Unfortunately for her, there isn’t a 12 step program for simply having a sucky personality.
There’s a certain feeling that kinda suffocates out all residual decency in your junky innards as you’re about to pull a a jack-move. Especially the type of jack-move that’s founded on prey’ing on one person’s addiction, only to quench the thirst of your own. That really sums up the only viable reason even my twisted set of morals could think of that makes such an act of snakey behavior the least bit understandable. No other reason than supporting your own disgusting habit deems it acceptable to blatantly “take the money and run” from another’s disgusting habit or greed alike. Otherwise its purposeless thievery, and thats just fucked up.
Nevertheless, taking the apples and ditching the bounty is part of the drug addict life. Approving of it matters nil when it comes down to its place in the parade. It doesn’t take your average adolescent, recreational thrill seeker whose only begun experimenting long to suffer the ramifications of an addict jack move. In fact, its usually during that duration of blissful ignorance when most “get took” their first time. The depths of hollow despair you’re left with is all relative to how much you were nabbed for, by whom, and the level of dependency upon whatever was supposed to be coming your way. In short, it stings much deeper to get screwed over on a $50 bag of heroin that was going to keep you from puking like a putz, than, say, a dime-bag of grass.
Don’t get a junkie jack move confused with the natural tax and tease that go hand and hand with scoring drugs. Everyone is making something, pinching bags, shorting quantities, etc. That’s not what this dissertation is articulating. I’m talking about unprovoked thievery, a blatant goose-chase for a certain substance that no more had a hope of happening than raining 8-Balls, baby. A scam. Point blank punking out and swiping the dinero, hombre.
In my decade and a half of occupying the underworld, I learned the same cruel, soul-crushing facts of jack moves that all get educated in. How usually the slimiest and most scornful acts are almost always handed out by those closest to us, ya know, our “friends“. Ha! Pity to the fucking title. Friends, or as you know I like to refer to them by, Frenemies. Whom else would we allow near enough to our monies or substances that such a swindle could be carried out? Sometimes its brain dead bulldozing of brain powers that are carried out with taking money and just never coming back around. However, with addicts its rarely so upfront and uncomplicated. More often than whores guilt, it is a collection of half-assed wives-tales, elaborate misgivings of how the thief is actually somehow the victim of a deeper scheme, until the person being took either says fuck it and forgets the bastard exists, or retaliates in some fashion. Here in Western Wisconsin, sadly, its usually the former. No legs get batted up with a Louisville slugger, no acts of arson; just another name added to the never ending list of losers you’ll “never fuck with again”. Beautiful, ain’t it?
If you’ve scoffed me off as some type of super villain, swearing this behavior is unrelated and a different animal, have at it. Go shoot dope 10 years, then talk to me about how unrelated and awful such a person must be to carry out such moral bankruptcy. Its not an act that I, even in the darkest hours practiced regularly. But you can bet your mommas Valium that along my path to perdition, a jack move or two were pulled and pushed into my right arm. Sometimes it was a newly met flunkie I knew I’d never see again, while other times it too was a closer kin in whatever poisoned circle I belonged too. Thats as bottom line as I can spell it, doll. For good or ill…Ta-Ta…
How do we unremember
From now till last November
The day we said surrender
To a decade long bender
Lets unremember , unremember
Before the memories get harder
Unremember all thats tender, and
Washed away in this rinsewater
In this early winter
Words they turn to splinters
Whats in your dirty filter
In a field full of iris’s
Brand me crude, its what they do
when youre dealing with these viruses
Easy to say
The sleaziest way
Except the breeze we breathe today
Forget your debt
And the sexist stress
Have wept up the credits to the mess
The cookers and the cooked
Unremember , Unremember
How the hookers became hooked
Now they’re sobbing, shook
How now we’re Viewed
As common crooks
1 day we’ll unremember
The vices we cling are claws in
How we’ve crawled all the walls within
When we’d rather just
Sing out songs to them
But we live inside those walls
Whether big or the ones sized small
Unremember it all
Unremember it all
When all the clocks have stopped
When is it time to call
Sick of this sickness. a Sickness worth just six pence. Sick of the bruises. Sick of losers. Sick of dents. Sick of cotton. Sick of oxy. Sick of Rotten. Sick of Hockey. Sick of skunk. Sick of junk sick of bunkies. Sick of flunkies. Sick of smut. Sick of sluts. Sick of hunts. Sick of junkies. Sick of needles. Sick of the beatles. Sick of hits. Sick of the eagles.
Sick of tidal waves. Sick of idol’s graves. Sick of countesses. Sick of ounces. Sick of getting viral counts. Sick of getting stuck. Sick of sticking. Sick as fuck. Sick of orders. Sick of hoarders. Sick of the 6th st street corner. Sick of horns. Sick of signs. Sick of porn. Sick of lines. Sick of huffing. Sick of The Post. Sick of not knowing just what im sick of most. Sick of you. Sick of me. Sick of all the sick between. Sick of voyers. Sick of employers. Sick of needing 2 sick lawyers. Sick of the Finnish. Sick of business. Sick of dim lit dinners. Sick of finishing them unfinished. Sick of clinics. Sick of gimmicks. Sick of not being sick of cynics. Sick of the same ole. Sick of whats familiar. Sick of some poles being considered pillars. Sick of dates. Sick of fate. Sick of raisons. Sick of grapes. Sick of no victim consideration when the stage talk is rape. Sick of standards. Sick of their doubles. Sick of how man should have the answers. Sick of break ups. Sick of makeups. Sick of “oh shit, this dick wears makeup”. Sick of dress rehearsals. Sick of dress-less sexists, designed to keep us sick of what our sex is. Sick of your god’s facade. Sick of sticking it on a necklace.
Sick of shrinks. Sick of scripts. Sick of thinking the shrink’s not worth a stink. Sick of rehabs. Sick of refills. Sick of police. Sick of the sequels. Sick of captions being closed to those who hold no action. Sick of fractions being acted as if the fraction is the actual.
Sick of pundits. Sick of dumb chicks. Sick of bloody wrists of a numb mistress. Sick of how its envisioned when you claim to have slain addiction. Sick of titles. Sick of mints. Sick of the entitled vital lynx. Sick of waiting rooms. Sick of bathing nude. Sick of aiding and degrading tombs, sick of the sickness of you taking shrooms. Sick of credits rolling. Sick of debit scrolling. Sick of getting vetted for everything you’ve left alone.
The will to survive is without a doubt the most incredible and baffling, as well as serving as mankind’s biggest freak of nature, simultaneously. The atrocious nature of so many millions of people’s natural environment and day to day “life”, yet without so much as a raise of the eyebrows, those same millions will cling to the shit stained rafters, if only for the opportunity to do it again tomorrow under equal circumstances. Madness.
This primal phenomena is why my personal two pennies says its impossible, (outside an obtuse kind of miracle) for someone to just “snap back” from an actual state of mind that is stuck inside a suicidal ideation trap. If you’re even remotely questioning your past and whether or not you were actually at that point, you surely haven’t and weren’t. It’s memory wouldn’t elude you for five fucking seconds. You’d know.
See, the summer I started managing the Sober Houses and was “Recovery Coach #1″ was preceded by an extremely fatalistic month emotionally, where I was teetering with self harm and mild body mutilation, and perhaps felt the nostalgic vibe of suicide, creeping itself back into my foreplay, fireplace and foreskin of my mind. Why there is an existing allure within the Warhol walls of even considering taking your own life is beyond me. Past the petty and elementary romanticism or adolescent mysticism of the whole ordeal, the level of control and power such an act exudes over one’s own life, is what always got my mental boner, hardest the fastest.
That 30 day party of all things pity was washed away at Big Falls Beach; A well populated sand strip by 20 and 30 somethings for some summer drunken behavior, with the addition of rapids and quick moving currents, if thats your bag baby. The crowd of two dozen that were in our party (Anarchy included) was enough attention for me to make it my bag, and so a handful of us decided to push the limits a bit. I have always been up for a little envelope pushing and this particular envelope had us riding down the rocky rapids, without a raft. I didn’t say the day’s envelope pushing was brilliant by any means.
This painful and poorly thought out plan nearly worked, no lie. It almost ended without consequence until I and another clueless clutz, found ourselves trapped underneath the wild rapids and fast currents. No raft, no life vest and approaching a 20 foot drop with a rocky waterfall at its bottom. We were beyond fucked.
During our lifetimes we all have a moment or 2 where we have lost all control and without some kind of assistance, could possibly die, or at least it feels as such at a minimum. My nearly lost point in all of this is, I woke up that day thinking I might be suicidal, but by its afternoon I was literally fighting for my life, and had it not been for my friend we’ll call Sleepy I would have been tattooed fish food. Out of god’s nowhere Sleepy swam against current with one arm around me and the other doing the paddling. Considering the fact that Sleepy is a rail-thin artist, whose likely never so much as dove to the bottom of a pool for a weight, was saving my sorry life in a full fledged rapid, was the obtuse miracle I received that day.
Now I know fight or flight will trump any weak willed product of the frontal cortex, and really my body had little choice but to try and stop the drowning, but still. I was generally grateful to be living by that day’s end. Talk about the pinnacle example of not missing or desiring something until its gone. Whatever had me turned on by the fucking temptress of taking your own life, was now deflated and resting at bottom of the reef at Big Falls Beach, and was replaced with an hours worth of an appreciation for living. If only those moments could be bottled up and capsuled, sold on a street corner at inflated rates. If only indeed. Ta-Ta.
In the life of an IV drug user, (one’s typically carried out in an out-of-control manner), few moments bring forth an opportunity so pristine in its pretense to give off a sensation of absolute control, as the act of the changing of your cell phone number. This is especially true when the switching of digits takes place due to a pure and simple overstock of mange that has you at their disposal, rather than a reaction to an outrageous event or stalker. It’s iron fist of power is even sweeter when its just an over-runneth of curdled nobodies that have too easy of a time reaching or connecting to your life, that leads to a change of a drug addicts phone number.
It’s like always having a jeanie in your pocket, allowing you to step back from stampede below, instantly becoming unreachable and, (better yet) unaccountable. That’s right. The Magnum Opus for every junky is to be a highly desired, posh sloth, whom is neither expected nor responsible for any single instance in their life. That is highest of all statuses in any and all druggy circles across the planet. To be entitled and anonymous, oh what a dream.
The time in an addicts life where they feel like pushing the magic button that deems them invisible or erased is undoubtedly our closest moment of control, in an uncontrollable life dictated by a diseased mind. For that brief blink of an eye, our worlds are as calm and uneventful as any ordinary and obsolete occurrence. Every asshole you owe money, sexual regret, asshole who owes you money, creditors, debtors, every hefalump and woosel that an IV drug life is compiled of, are instantly put at an automatic and ominous pause. Peace, however synthetic and short-lived, has been attained.
While this seems like a perfect opportunity for a social cleanup within your contacts, an entire entry could be written about whom and the order of whom, the addict gives the newly changed phone number too. This phenomena is fueled by the size of the fire’s flames. Will it be Mom, Dad, Drug Dealer, Booty Call, Psychiatrist or Methadone Clinic that gets the polished new digits, first? The truth thats most accurate is that whomever ends up as pole position and gets the new drug addict digits first will directly relate to whichever temptation, addiction, scratch, itch or pain the addict wishes (or not) to quench. My Opus was Anarchy on the grey Saturday in Princeton Valley when the switching of mine commenced.
Im guessing it is universally so, that each person has a contact in their address book or digital library, that has dozens upon dozens of phone numbers. The chances of that person also being the biggest drug addict are almost certain. I sleep with a softest of pillows knowing I am such person in 9 outta 10 contact lists that I’m apart of.
Lights, camera, destruction
another famine eruptin
the mammals are fuckin
on their lavender tussin
and so we pander to russians
look at the camera’s cussing
we aren’t these amateur lushes
off to iraq with your husbands
and where is the culprit?
he’s there in the pulpit
handing out commandments
with his hand up a black dress
this is a jungle gym
of cluttered drugs & hyms
and we are huddled in
the not so subtle sins
and as you try to hop scotch it
on to my nazi crotch rocket
remember im the mentor of verbal hype
come enter my 3rd reich
drug speech, love speaks
come see the light
Crumb theifs, numb leafs
on my tree on of life
and your name has been removed
by an angel of the noon
put my fangs up into you
in my manger by the moon
contemplation till the last bout
cons are racing to get amped out
welcome to the woods
and our concentration campout
look to the clouds and youll see
the fuckin powers et be
the vultures above
and their culture of drugs
wheres the thrill?
ill match you
if you care to kill a sack dude
find my self sittin next to
Ever since the falcon hatched
Ive needed help to make it last
my future molding fast
in assorted woven glass
but i can tell the gas
from the smoke that they blow
i used to sell them grass
and that coke that they know
peeking through the camera lens
and see it mirrors hazardous
a few lines off that mirror
and it appears glamorous
i can breathe it
i can taste it
no equals if we’re racing
subpoena’d to the basement
to a teenage wasteland
dont lend an aviator lens
to the latest of the trends
spray paint it on a benz
i still aint sayin what it says
I break chalk
on a space walk
in a grey fog
as I gaze and blaze stalks
there he goes again
whoops, Hum’s wanderin
on Neptune, wrecked too
Someone call Buzz Aldrin
These generous degenerates
chuckin them the elements
clouding up your spacious skies
and fuckin up your celebants
What a fucking Houdini I am at holstering a hypothetical, tossing a bit of time and entitlement at its (possible future) while mixing true blue temperaments at the sheetrock, all the while rewinding my “never again’s” and having to ad-lib them once again. No magic 8-Ball made of plastic, or of pure Heroin would have predicted I would be on a public transit bus, heading to make a transfer on the east side, back to Dante’s 7th Layer.
Not only will my $3 get my under-slept eyes back to the town I was ran out of 120 days ago, but my own personal place I have set up to rest my head at happens to be the Sober Houses I used to manage, until I relapsed on Heroin & was arrested on dual drug felonies. Not like taking a ride to the local Costco or Farm and Fucking Fleet, ya dig? Don’t run through too many Kleenex boxes over my unavoidable anxiety arsenal, because, I am an almost complete, phony freedom having American as much as Ted Kazinski or Jack Ruby anyway. Ruby is the real thief of a priceless piece of truth. Now I’m not nearly stoned enough to infer that Jack Ruby was anything other than a patsy with press credentials, and in actuality didn’t even possess such clearance. A former cop not at all involved in transporting Oswald, that happened to walk unabated, armed no less, to a point blank range, draw his pistol and killed this countries last chance at having truth prevail, on its highest stage (court). What Ruby really killed was the coverup that killed countless, including and beginning of course with JFK.
So no One but me ordered me into this 8 wheeled wagon with Wisconsin Public radio blasting an anti Frac Sand Call-in hour. A real Wall Street Journal to jabber his jaw numb and your ears tired about the details. Oh, those details. The devil is in those details & no, no copies were made, or tanned slaved Slav’s were paid. I did this as voluntarily as any veteran agreed to dress up in an undersized outfit and kill children. Patriots come in all kinds of coffins. I wonder how many shelters for bastard caucasians could be built with the wood we use to box our corpses and toss the human condition into class separation, one last time. A final “fuck off”, next line over buddy, See these plots call for a headstone and a hymn, dead groans or a grin, they sure won’t be stole or sold out without sin.
Behind all the bullshit and polished up wordplay, and after the metaphors/double talk/and just the blatantly obvious entertainment side of the thing….after all those arguments are sifted through, those who still know what the fuck I’m trying for, these ones are
If ever I get the seriousness of the voodoo being passed around, or compulsion particles criss-crossed, need I glance no further than my daily dance at the methadone clinic. If god “makes no mistakes”, then he clearly doesn’t have a hand in the making of the mangled meat, freak show at the dose windows from 5:30am to 11 every day.
The latest debacle down at the dose bar gives us an excellent opportunity to introduce the lackluster loser we’ll call Lambchop. Lambchop is your forever victim. Half of the hack doctors in your local yellow pages are kept in business by the ilk of Lambchop. To label her a hypochondriac would be like calling the mighty Atlantic Ocean just a puddle in a park. The depths of her need for empathetic pandering, know no bottom. Even bottom feeders pass by Lambchop in a hurried fashion as if they have somewhere better to be.
You see it wasn’t always this way with our precious Lambchop. Just 3 years ago she was the self appointed blowhard for sobriety. She was a bit moody, but welcomed enough to be around, and would only date men who were “serious about staying sober”. See, Lambchop’s supposedclaim to fame was that of a recovering IV Heroin addict. Where I initially met Lambchop was in the cafeteria of the area’s local detox center. Her first words to me were, “Finally, a cute one”, which was almost immediately followed by us sharing a passionless, pointless swapping of spit, and me passing out 15 minutes later from the Phenobarbital I had been fixed with by the tight assed admission nurse.
Anyway, that Lambchop, as self righteous and over zealous as she could be, was at least a fun enough person to share time with and be around. That Lambchop was the closest embodiment of happiness as she has ever been, and sadly by the looks of things, will ever be. Her “recovery” from drugs, while very plastic and borderline elementary in its substance, kept her simple mind focused enough to fool itself into contentment. Then she met Anarchy, and all 3 of our lives changed whether we knew it or not. I don’t tell the stories of another but for as much as it includes me. Lambchop actually met Anarchy before I did, and the two were an item freshly severed when Anarchy met me. By then, the once sober, trumpeting AA queen who dated men, was now at minimum bi-sexual, actually shooting Heroin (emphasis strictly because the addict Lambchop claimed to be initially (IV) was all a fabrication to come off as anything other than who she was for the sake of craved acceptance) and doing all she could to morph herself into a clone of Anarchy, all the while the actual traits she once embodied and had positive merit, had evaporated.
A short year after I had met Lambchop, she was a resident staying at the Sober Houses I managed and operated. You can bet your last tenth of Mexican tar that it boiled the blood of our beloved Lambchop to have to answer to, pay rent to, and follow the instruction of the one person she hated most, me; All the while Anarchy and Galentine were just etching our imprints in infamy, came the dismal and dreadful downward spiral of the wounded and whacked out Lambchop. And while she’ll oh so voluntarily and pitifully plead the reason she hates me such is because I “stole”
her girlfriend, while the more accurate analysis is penis envy. She’s a garden variety, point blank, dick wanting dyke with a diluted sense of reality, the wit of a wet-brained alcoholic , and a paternal Puerto Rican temper.
The latest outburst of her now newly crystal methamphetamine-minded theatrics, comes to life in the form of her bull rushing me like a starved wildebeest, eyes the size of quarters, in front of the methadone clinic, taking the worst excuse for a right hook this side of the Mississippi has seen, called me a “faggot fem” (which I was most proud of) and tried to steal my hat. It’s a nice hat and I can see the allure in stealing it, but it was a bit of overkill considering the current circumstances.
No child has wished for something so earnestly as Lambchop was wishing I would have swung back and cold cocked her blotchy skinned face to concrete, like she deserved. Instead, I did the one thing that infuriated her more than any reaction could. I did nothing at all. No comments, no acknowledgement of the attack, just picked my hat off the ground and waltzed up the road like nothing had happened.
You would think such a blatant, even criminal event such as the one just detailed would be enough for the cash cow clinic (whom I told this story in its entirety to the director) to say, “Ok, this is out of hand. Multiple unprovoked attacks on other clients. She’s out”. But what do you want to bet that when I go check in at the 48 hours I was asked to allow for, for deliberation, Ms. Lambchop will still be dosing at said clinic. I hope I’m wrong baby. Damn do I ever. But the odds are heavily leaned against me, because hey, unless I can cover the loss of Lambchop’s $18 a day, and there isn’t blood the beige walls, whats the big fucking deal, Galentine?
Imagine the horror if I, the tattooed tabooed heroin addict would have put my recently moisturized hands on Lambchop in any aggressive manner, then threw a punch, and finished her off by screaming a sexual slur her way. Do you think I’d be sitting here handsomely, writing of the days events? Lets get real, Ringo. They would have had me cuffed and booked faster than a black guy at Breckenridge, and thats as real as it gets. Time will tell and then we’ll see how the powers et be spin cycled this missionary position.
When the November ass chapped temperature tallies less than the fingers on your nimble boned, queer kind of pale, peasant hands; the wild in galentine and his eyes said that he had either ended the day’s odds far ahead of where the bookies had him, or disgustingly lower-like Irish life and the Shanty type, ya dig? But it wasn’t that way Baby Ruth. Ole baby face leather skin was earning bank rolls far heavier than a looters score. Because at the end of the desert, your favorite felonious writer on command, Mr. Galentine was able to expose some of the rankest, slither-some, this side of the rivers run, ice blooded savagery that holds no place within 50 meters of a phony civilization such as the one we find ourselves in today: THE CREATURE CALLED THE FRENEMY!
Remember when friends, enemies, partners, brothers, crews and snakes were so much more distinguishably different than they were similar. Welcome to 2013, I’m told.
Unfortunately, such back-alley bullshit has become the bulb that is most often flicked when it comes to interpersonal relationships with other human fleeings. Which is the truth for most we meet. Feeble lemmings that are doing their own dirty work at dodging their own damned demands. My unmet expectation that keeps my nights long and my penis both lenient and deviant, is the ability the FRENEMY keeps themselves so believed and coy amongst the kings of conning those we care for.
Thank the God of your hour for keeping you too aloof to let the Northern Filth that deep fries their decency into dime bags of devils dust, to cause a hiccup in your stick-up. Thank it twice if its actually true. How mighty the methamphetamine, mistress that cunt slaps the laughs from a 3 year bond some bishops never belong too. Just like that. It would almost be sad if it wasn’t so goddamned ordinary. How many tweaks does it take to delete the memory of knowingu couldn’t face the
consequences of two blood hounds fucking. What would Jesus name a
fetus? What would seem most average to you? Jackie or Lou?
Why would I be surprised? There are countless “property’s of the state” that are sitting calendar after calendar in a cage because some asshole “they trusted”, sold ‘em out for a quarter gram of crystal, without batting a eye. We all get what we deserve when we’re even remotely, in the slightest feeble fraction near that hyena scene. Luckily all I lost was something that was never there to begin with.
The hilarity I find in the lustless jezebel’s future is the $40 she’ll get when she pawns her ring that looks a few sizes smaller than the shards she’d sell him out for.
Most junkies of the mid twenties age, from middle to upper class, MidWestern homes know the rehab gambit all too well. You know the sort of dynamic I’m speaking about; Norman Rockwell’s idea of a good time or grand gesture. Oddly, I am both from such as well as it’s antithesis. Oh fuck you’re thinking. What is he perseverating to the point of nonsensical ranting? I don’t do that anymore. Or any less. But thats not this story, sir.
See, my slightly roundish physiqued counselor we can call Slother. If you saw Slother, you’d guess his vocation would be either a factory line guy who fishes a lot, or perhaps selling State Farm Insurance. The absolute last guess that any functioning mind would presume Slother to hold title as would infallibly be a counselor at a methadone clinic. Im not judging this book’s cover as much I’m making an observation a child, even a slow child would be able to make. Now don’t take my spilled coffee on my lap and think I’m asking for million by suggesting a junky counselor ought to have had heroin use in their past, but you don’t get a tattoo from a guy whose skin is naked of ink. It’s bad fucking Ju-Ju.
6 weeks ago Slother suggested during our one on one counseling session, which are foolishly allotted an hour’s time, that I write a “little example” of why I have blown off inpatient treatment in my past. Fuck me, Franky Valle. Have you ever tried teaching Pakistan history to an autistic anteater, because only such a task could compare to the needed space, source finding, and downright adolescent angst needed to properly provide Sloth his answer.
Throughout the duration of a life lived to 60 years or (miserably) more, each fella will have a certain area of expertise, however bat biting boring to you and I and Charlie Fry it would seem, we all have that one topic that no one can blindside us like Okinawa. All of the vile and vicarious possibilities, mine happens to be the ins and outs of inpatient drug and alcohol treatment centers. Anyone who knows me will verify with various emotions that my rehab tour has lasted longer than any Styxx show or Rush reunion. Again, just an observation. So to be asked by the guy who ate the Geico gecko to write, write, my reasons for “blowing off rehab”, while he fully well knows my profession is just that, was creating a crescendo too superb for Slother’s natural ability. This one was the makings of literary eruption, but purely by accident. The best fucking ambush is the ambush within the ambush.
The legend of my inpatient touring begins at age 15, when I was expelled from the Wisconsin Public School System for a years duration. It was the year 2000, Manson and Placebo were on most my burned CD’s and I played trumpet in the high school jazz band. To make a short story long, the band director went to give a lesson with another student, decided of all the horns in Hell he’d use my trumpet & out fell a black film canister filled with marijuana. Now Im a real menace, crime focused kid I, in a single moment became labeled for life. My alcoholic father whom had a few years of sobriety at the time sent me off to a detox facility for juveniles. I was punched in the mouth in my first hour by a brain dead boy with badly dyed blond hair and my father picked me up 6 hours later and took me to Hazelden Youth, or Baby Haze as the zeros there called it. Now I’m not gonna get into the fucked up questions like why on Gods burning Earth did I need detox, treatment, or anything more than some skittles and orange Crush soda to “deal” with not smoking marihuana. I wonder where my irrational and impulsivity were birthed? Nevertheless, my introduction with the whole rehab scene, well, you get the picture.
Oh Hazelden, the revered and lauded campus of cleaning up druggies and drunks. The finest facilities, with the most prestigious porcelain toilets to hurl your fucking guts into, all for the fair and balanced rate of $1,000 a day. Yes, each day a grand to get off the sauce with the star studded and top studied intellects. I had my 16th birthday at Hazelden and since you had your own chef, I had ice cream and apple pie. Now this of course is all a fucking idiom because I hadn’t even found my “Drug of Choice” yet and was just a punk kid starting to experiment. All sending me to a plush, resort-modeled retreat showed an impressionable teenager that if you kept on using drugs, you could still be wealthy, beautiful and have a high price hotel of sorts in the woods of Minnesota to hide out when the going got rough. Of course thats 1% of the addict community is able to do, but what the fuck else would a 16 year old think? All in all a very bad(ass) beginning to what would become a way of life. Literally.
From there the next 10 years became an actual revolving door with one inpatient failure after another. My mother’s way of enabling me was keeping me on her insurance policy through her policy as an educator until I was 25, which meant without a hitch that I could stroll into any rehab hotel or detox dry tank in the state of Wisconsin and not be asked for a copay or so much as a dime for my amenities or issues. And boy did I have issues, baby. It was every few months in the beginning that I’d go do the ole’ 72 hour dry out in detox lounge. You’d meet a crew of faceless, nameless nobodies, perhaps grab a phone number or 2 and then its back to the action.
Sometimes life would be so fucking miserable and bleak looking for positive change that the detox counselor could “convince” ya to try a full 28 day program, if, proper funding is secured of course. Philanthropists make lousy business partners, sometimes. See, the drunks
are the bastards to convince they need a full fledged, 4 week brigade of bullshit. Most have the same storied gripe of needing to “get back to work”, or that they “cannot be putting my life on hold”, while its 100% accurate to say they believe that, the reason drunks have jobs is to pay for their alcohol, and usually their detox is a fast 3 day bounce back. 3 days of Valium and a brand new man is making his mark momma. The addict and junky especially are far easier to persuade into a full, month long inpatient parade and charade. By then, the addicts of the genre I belonged, would show up nearly cashless, a few cigarettes left, and the end of a days worth of dope. We are all to happy to get to a place that the lights are low, coffee is free and endless and the med room is open 24 hours a day, darling. Depending on what facility you’re detoxing in, you can qualify for a nice loading dose of a cocktail your first few hours in the clouds of recovery and have that first night be a blur worth belonging too.
By the time I had hit 25 years of age i had started no less than 20 inpatient treatments and “graduated” less than 5. February 2012 I am enrolled in a facility I had been an inpatient client at least 10 times, participated in several of their outpatient programming, and was a screw loose of being a fucking fixture at the old Maple Villa, as we will call it. This shitty particular facility was the place I went 2 years after Hazelden and ended up leaving rehab with one of the AODA counselors and had a sexual affair and relationship with one another. We lived together 3 years after they forced her to resign and shocked the statistics by making it so long. That saga could contain ten thousand words alone, but here I was back at the Maple Villa and if it weren’t for my Devine meeting of Anarchy at this said treatment the place, it absolutely couldn’t provide me one reasonable memory.However, as truth beholds, it is the meeting grounds of Anarchy and Galentine
, the meeting which changed the worlds of all who would come into contact with either of them, from then on. Ta-Ta…
I wish I felt there was an outlet outisde my invisible audience, and the pins and needles I keep my own heels hop-scotching on, that I could rest assured my news wouldn’t be told to some jack-pine vigilante savage authority about the terrors the therapist calls dreams. With the nightmares that bring me to a moments gasp, casting vivid imagery of 25 inch shadow goblins, with fetus flesh dangling from their dull fangs and pointed bicuspids. That’s the latest appetizer I have served like its nothing, because it isn’t. Not anymore.
Oh so often do I get reminded of how nonuniform I actually am, in accordance with the human race and societal norms. This couldn’t be done less purposefully if I had come out of a coma as rare as a comet’s lore for fucks sake. All I know how to be is what I end up as one whim to the next. Is it you’ve stumbled across a wiser duo than your agenda might call for? Pity you! I am of the cloth kitten that can go around irritating and infuriating on an instants fucking notice. What a talent, right? I can bother the masses by acting how I prefer to behave and carrying out accordingly. A true asshole, indeed.
Im not Irish, but like the fire bearded gingers, I keep a little bit of grief around for those poignant moments; Just to keep a fella level, because I know as much as I loath the limelight, that the people of this planet, and some of the unexplained lifeforms make it impossible as possible to recreate the past. Not in a maniacal Gatsby kind of way that leaves a bastard only ill illuminated. But in a much more subtle, insidious, cunning and coy like a high shelf drunk. You know the sort. Guzzle down the priciest bourbon, when the bottom rack booze gets you just as blitzed. No one in such a mood that accompanies large lines for liquor is in the game for social “Thank You’s ” and “Hello’s”. Their denial has diluted themselves into feeling like the noble drunk. The afternoon martini lush isn’t like the paper sack pucker faces who are perched up like pelicans, isn’t that right Rocco.
Finding the right combination of props and what have’s with the right company, music, feast, & famine with and all the bells and whistles in between; Which blend of bending realities you prefer best baby? What sort of a echo blasting noise pouring from each faucet that we fuck? What we’re really after is some emotion duplication, but not just wax statues of ourselves, see that plastic sort of approach just wouldn’t do darling. Save your silicone for the strippers and starfish.
But now the combination can be summed up of some cool sort of tone that we’ve already suggested for the mirage of my image quickly approaching 30 years of age, hopelessly struggling to put together a published piece of American literature. There are plenty of words.Oh how we have the words. Everyone has fucking words. It’s everything else that’s missing. A book is nothing more than the ability to keep somebody’s attention for 30 to 50,000 words and make him like it enough to spend money to do it, dolly. The cost of the initial literary entry or Virgin Novel is anywhere from a college tuition or two, a handful of spouses to flee the scene, and a over indulgence into any number of vices, limitless unless its the last limit. Our research phase and development stage of our fact finding is a shade more lethal than Hemingway and his petty ways.
Good God here it is, real is the rundown. What must I do to capture the carols of our yesterday’s? Oh, the yesterday’s; we had some yesterday’s babe. Take me back to the hallway our eyes locked horns and pinned each other paralyzed, though not with pain or any other discomfort but rather a stranglehold of essential sensual sort that reminded me of the reused rigs and rinse water that pooled up in our fountain of youth. Suck me off on rotten cotton and cheap forgotten’s.
Back when careless felt confident rather than chaotic. Why do I missed the uninvited knocks of death on my doorstep, laughing at the stacks of bills and planning another escape. Shooting up in my Sunday’s best on a Wednesday midmorning. Do I have to stack the case for just in case? Not when I see St. Peter. See I want nicer boots and finer hair than he indeed. Let’s hope all these promised nights of high intellectualism and low sexual morals would leave a certain judge or selector biased for whatever reasons they may dream of. Envy & disgust usually end the same when their arrows are aimed at your neck. Here’s to the shields, masks, and wings.. Ta-Ta..
Friday morning down at the old fix and flee, ya know the old pump and munch, your neighborhood methadone clinic, and the grim reapers of recovery were roaming at high altitudes. Somewhere in the gauntlet line between the pharmaceutical free for all out front, to the actual dosing windows, contained no less than 30 roaming, foaming drug addicts at dawn
Like every miserable morning here at the methadone clinic, a “Lobby Person” mingles with the miserable, takes care of the days “flags” (flags get put on clients for a variety of trivial hiccups like failed drug tests, missed appointments, etc), and does their damnedest to keep a basic order in the zoo. Today’s babysitter was Tonic. You remember Tonic, the Apple Pie American girl next door who is everyones kid sister or buddy. For as green as her hopeful eyes give her away, Tonic has a keen sense of discernment. Today’s useless chatter in line was that of our voices not being heard by the powers et be. A truly unoriginal and dull witted gripe to be garnishing time up, as we all sweat, swear, and sigh as we stare at the asshole in front of us that always seems to take an ordinarily 90 second ordeal(taking your dose) and fluster-fuck it into a 9 minute audition for a Maury Povich special.
“Come on asshole, they don’t need your life story”, is a common chorus; Usually rebutted by a,
“Yea fuck off, at least I’d have a few chapters worth of material, ya fucking welfare leech”.
Seemingly on cue, Tonic emerged from the Friday morning fevers that were about to boil past there allotted levels of bullshit, and with just enough satire and sarcasm in her
step, Tonic hands me a fucking comment card. Except, in all its fuchsia-tinted tone of pretentiousness, its actually called a “Feedback” card. That’s right, redcoat..
Comment Cards and Suggestion Boxes are dust in the wind, relics of the age before, and have rolled out the red carpet for the new and not the slightest bit improved, Feedback Card!
In all its patronizing pink it procures these 2 questions:
1.) What improvements, if any, could we make in our treatment program that would be of benefit to you?
2.) How can we better serve you in the future?
Beyond the blind obvious that both of these are clearly identical questions, a whopping three lines are provided should the reader respond.
Any time a formulated system suggests a switch-up, any real attempt at reconstruction must occur at the top and from the beginning. What that gibberish translates into contextually is the doctor using more discernment upon her admission process. To explain in even simpler terms, stop letting half-assed amateur pill snorters flood the clinic hallways. If me, a 29 year old junky can comb through the ranks one by one, and wager who belongs and who does not.
Now of course that is a crass and unimpressive selection committee/process, but you get the drift, don’t ya darlin? Stop looking in the strung-out eyes of a possible admission and instead of visualizing a more proper placement they could be referred too and reap benefits from; You simply see $18/day for at least 180 days. Not every Vicodin abusing pop-tart who hears about about their local clinic in some overcrowded outpatient program they’ve been forced into, requires the grueling commitment and conditioning that Methadone Maintenance is. If me as an everyday junky can sift through the thrill seekers, so should the God Damned resident physician on staff, right?
As far as improving “The Treatment Program” part of the methadone maintenance, lets not get the horse horned up before the cart is in tact. Methadone clinics, no matter their location, are packed wall to wall with rejects of all other methods or protocols. We are an entire unit of incorrigible ingrates that aren’t allowed within a hundred paces of any civilized curriculum or organized agendas. Within the walls of every dose bar in America there are thousands of unfinished rehab stints, endless tallies of multiple offenders, and downright last resort rehabilitation. Just as it should be. Methadone in our clinic has become so blasé, it is downright terrifying. It is up to the Dr and nursing staff to keep the clinics filled with the needy, not the greedy.
Once you’re beyond the brain freeze of deciding whose in and whose out, that’s when the actual cluster-fuck starts. Most of those of us whom require the daily dosing have been saturated with the typical mantras of AODA therapy. No folder filled with inspirational epitaphs from a 3 year old edition of Good Housekeeping will soften the sting of sucking dick for heroin, or prostituting your oldest daughter for a drug debt. Sooner or later it should be quite obvious that the situations your clientele have survived, weren’t done so at the hands of any worksheet, or “program” in general. Figuring out from the get go who is actually interested in any therapeutic programming beyond the days dose of methadone is key.
No shame ought to exist in having the balls to be honest enough to let it be known you are there for one thing and one thing only, methadone. Lets not kid ourselves. Methadone is the kind of clinic we’re attending, so why some people ought to feel forced to put up some charade of activities their now participating in, in addition to taking the methadone, only to preserve another’s insecurities, is fucking sickening. Every dope addict who takes methadone requires an individualized assessment, like we all get when we went through intake. Most of us haven’t the slightest fucking memory of our intake because we were shaky, sweaty, saskwatches , who were six seconds from shattering the plastic window that separates the human lifeforms from those looking to soften up their coffins.
If the future client’s interests are actually consuming the thoughts and minds of the daytime decision-makers, such concerns could be evidenced by providing same-day dosing/intakes. With the way it is set up now, the sickest and most hopeless junkies and fiends are sent packing to the next level of intensity; The street. That’s right. With how the guidelines have it laid out now, if a dope addict shows up on a Wednesday looking for relief, they wont take their first piddly pucker-up 30 mils until mid morning, Friday. Expecting any real junky to not get loaded for over 48 hours, simply because the promise of a lousy 30 mils of methadone awaits? That’s cute. If such a feat could be conquered, that addict ought to call his family, preacher and the clinic itself and tell ‘em he’s not requiring the roller-coaster that takes off with the start of drug replacement therapy; Because any labeled addict that can make it 2 god forsaken days without a fix and find himself upright enough to coherently come in that 3rd day to dose, well, they might want to ask themselves just why they’ve accepted the label of addict so easily or freely. Thats another saga I suppose but anyone who can go 2 days without junk and not need the rubber room, isn’t an addict who needs methadone. By giving that person such a prescription, the problem is officially getting worse, at $18 a pop.
The question of how the methadone clinic could better serve its client base, could be accurately articulated with unlimited amounts of potential answers. My personal favorite is taking the otherwise educated equivalents of average chimps that make up most of its staff, and forcing them all to dose daily, like the rest of us rejects. That’s right. Make everyone from the blind ambitious interns who haven’t been within a hundred hangovers of a heroin shot, to the burnt out supervision, that can’t tell a oscillating fan with streamers, from a heroin loving anorexia patient; Make them all line up like Jersey City Heifers at 5:00 am every damn morning, whether its a foot of fresh powder or a flood from Noah’s time. Methadone patients would make the best fucking postal workers this world would ever see. Think of the hours and weather condition combinations that are endured like it’s nothing. Give the junkies the sacks of mail and have them deliver it. Problem is, their dose would wear off around noon and any piece of mail or package yet to be delivered would be considered as good as gone.
Of course such a request or prerequisite is a load of folly and mockery, because even if it was exactly as suggested here, with the staff dosing to get a better feel for the fucking realities, endless amounts of situational experience and emotional wear and tear of our wars within, could never be instantly injected and made part of someones makeup in an instants time. Remember, you cannot get something for nothing. Ta-Ta…
The human condition loves a good redemption story. Our American culture especially strokes the shaft of a down and out, who rises from the ashes like a Phoenix. A comeback kid, so to speak. Throughout my traveling carnival we’ll call my life, I have been referred to by self, as well as by others as The Comeback Kid. Except now Im nearly 30, far removed from kid status and the bottoms are deeper, darker and a bigger pain in the ass to climb out of. That being said, like most addicts I have thrived in turmoil and at times taken a certain, sick sort of pride in being able to dust the shoulders off when others might have folded.
Such was the feeling as I looked down at my vibrating Verizon flip-phone (I have found I take no better care of my cell phones if they are $200 or $15, so now I use the latter) and saw it was the local Detox facility calling in. It never became ordinary, or felt “normal” having dignitaries or authoritative individuals communicating with me, the reformed junky, on a level playing field. I liked that. However uneasy one might think it made me, I was always put at ease knowing how unhinged it left whomever I was dealing with. Anyway, this particular caller was the director of said facility and had watched me dry out no less than 50 times. Some of those trips lasted less than 24 hours, mind you. Nothing like getting all settled into your blue gown and paper slippers, only to have your dealer call the cell phone the detox unit didn’t confiscate. I never looked at any hard data, however I’d bet your last twenty bucks that once it was implemented that no client possess a cell phone, the success rates climbed. How could they not? Before, you wouldn’t have your first dose of phenobarbital down the hatch and you’d get a call and ZOOM! Bye bye treatment, bye bye sobriety, bye bye life. Having said all that, me and the bossman had gotten fairly chummy over the progression of both my demise, and recent successes alike. He was one of the few who was generally happy for my reemergence into the human race.
The nature of this particular call was of a different degree. He announced to me that the local news channel was doing a segment that concentrated on individuals who were first hooked on prescription pain killers, then graduated into Heroin. He said at first he was just going to give his usual mantra on the natural progression of opiate abuse and blah blah blah. Then he thought, why not have Galentine do it! So here he was, calling me up to ask if I would go on regional television and outline the disease of opioid dependence. Well, holy shit. Such a task or request would ordinarily be an impressive enough of a request; What really roasted my marshmallows was the fact I was sitting in the rundown efficiency shit shack I scored my Heroin at, when the call came in. Talk about irony. So I did what any low down dirty double life having drug addict would do, and I accepted the invitation. Thats right I agreed to it. To go on TV, speak my wisdom about Heroin and promote the 2 sober houses I was managing, all the while I’m a daily dope junky whose trying to juggle chainsaws. I wonder if I wondered if my life was at all unmanageable.
The following morning the whole charade commenced as you’d expect. The news babe was due at the sober house I managed around noon. I awoke like every other day around 6, fixed, and went about business as usual. At precisely 11:45 am I went into my bedroom, locked the door, fixed healthy 50 units of China White, and about 20 minutes later a news van pulled up outside. An average looking woman in her lower thirties came without a cameraman, which was fine by me. I then gave my 5 minute exposé about my first encounters with Oxycontin, then Dilaudid, & finally hitting the crescendo of all downward spirals, becoming an intravenous heroin addict. I summed it up of course by trumpeting my near year of sustained sobriety and info on the marvelous sober houses I manage. All while stoned on Heroin. What a fucking guy. The clueless farm girl turned reporter thanked me a hundred times and called me brave, and even offered a personal prayer to God himself on my behalf. I have gotten far less from a many nameless skirts I should say.
Like most of my entries and vivid recollections of active addiction, this tale has no real happy ending or polished finale. Just selfish and ignorant behavior from a junked out addict, though the real pity is how badly we want a story of redemption that we will get duped by a dope fiend on the 6 o’clock news. I would love to blow myself silly with examples of my masterful manipulations, but truth be told, it isn’t that my behavior was or is all that impressive, as much as the behavior of others, is just that pathetic and full of folly. Does it really matter that I did the interview high, and lied the whole way through? Ask Jeremiah Wright. What matters more (to me) is how anyone could give a shit about someone they don’t and won’t ever know. That’s why I agreed to do it, as natural as possible which during that period of time meant on as much dope as possible.. Still don’t have an answer. Ta-Ta..
Sometimes I find it difficult to portray gratitude for an unsolicited life. How population control would see its finest triumph, if the conceived eggs of this Earth were offered an option to keep their unhatched hormones housed unopened. How many millions of minions would just assume stay a hypothetical, instead of being a sure and certain statistical disappointment? Surely this one.
Let me stay indoors where the floors won’t be pulled away underneath me. Isolate me from myself and the serpents of the situation. Keep me at arm’s reach, one hand wrapped around my neck and the the other finger fucking the frontline. I shall keep my tongue fluttering epitaphs and hideaway metaphors to shield myself from the true grit emotional fuck-for-all that an adult life is made up from.
My loneliest hours spent rigged up in a run down Minneapolis efficiency apartment left me with less wounds of ridicule than a life free from Heroin use. Any flowery fantasies a person might possess or dream up will be the very delusions that comeback and cock-slap you across the mouth while you’re out looking for kisses and key tags. You’ll see that the addict community, for all the trumpeting of the need for an open mind from a beat up gathering, the envy and back-biting that happens to our own, is unforgivable.
Instead of accolades, you’ll get resented. No congratulations when all this time exists for ridicule. While other minority groups of oppression would like nothing more than to have an example of steadfast diligence paying off and reaping sweet reward and fill the streets with music and parade candy. Not the addicts. The addicted people will sit salivating, plotting and scheming on how to dethrone this hypocritical imposter, with their fancy washed jeans and preppy clean fingernails. To hell with them! The junky knows no validation sweeter than misery. It’ assurance on an uninsured life staying as such. The world needs their window lickers and shit flingers too.
I appreciate an utopian ending and happy hooray as much as the next guy, and the contrast is that not ever story needs rainbows + butterflies or dungeons and doom. The problem for your average drug addict is they harbor no empathy. Its morphed into a total Me, Me, Me society and the addict demographic always houses the biggest zealots on both sides of the same coin. The same addict that used to rob their senior citizen grandma so they can buy methamphetamine, will be sending droves of decent folks to their fabricated afterlife; Hell. I swear old Kelvin and Alexander are sharing a pale of moonshine and a couple of good whores over the idea of their literal hell finding its way into the picture. Not only did the nonsensical premise gain acceptance, but its existence has penetrated itself as the boogeyman of otherwise rational people. Like, why would the scary monsters hide under the bed of a celibate christian or conservative couple? Sounds like boring stalking to me.
Maybe thats switching gears at a rate you’re unfamiliar with, or just otherwise unprepared for. Either way you’re not much use if you cannot keep up with vibe around you. Nobody likes a bummer that needs babysitting. Save that shit for those amateurs I was telling you about so brazenly, beforehand. I am not of that cloth, kitten. Thank whatever deity you feel most at ease with or contempt for that you have no use for their strawmen and dull witted agendas. I present a better dilemma. An authentic conundrum; It is most unnerving and all out fatalistic as it is fantastic, self-fulfilling prophecies to some, and horrid coincidence for others, but to me and those willing to entertain ideas without subscribing to them or cheapening ideas by putting a group title/label/hierarchy alongside that feeling, this is who I am. You cannot recreate feelings, but you can capture them and keep them churning out memories until the mood calls for a change. Its being able to adapt to that fucking change that separates a legacy from a laughing stock, 15 minute fluke.
No one ever thinks back and recites the time that keeping it simple and playing it by the rules yielding any examples of excellent savagery. If it feels right, fuck it. Ta-Ta for now…
I am as easy to accommodate as they come, baby, and I find myself able to acquiesce to nearly any such request any one person might have so long as it promotes free choice for all parties. I’ve chosen to spend most of the majorities of my mornings and moments with the colorful, clumsy, selfish shellfish the drug addict community is compiled of. No personality is out of bounds if they follow the most basic fucking line of procedure of not infringing upon another’s decision to do what they might. Seems plausible enough, right?
The one kink in the spokes is the fact that human beings are vile pieces of monkey shit whom are as ignorant of their own self awareness as they are of those they’re surrounded by. It’s hard to factor in the odds of human error because lets face it fuckers; Humans are an error. A total and absolute fucking manure field of fuck-ups who aren’t even bright enough to accurately identify that which they actually want. Sure, guesses get made and trial and error plays itself out, but people have this overwhelming tendency to mistakenly procure and promote certain pieces of the puzzle that aren’t as they seem. A fabricated fantasy, dreamt in the daydreams of babes. But babes they are not.
See, these experts of enticement often get confused and one of their common blunders is asking for that which they don’t truly want. A tale as old as time. With predictability as clear as any crystal ball or ball of crystal meth, but such facts don’t stop the cycle. Well intended souls who ask for the full monty, but really only have the nerves for partial disclosure. Once the whole ball of wax is observed, rather than maintain the kind of musing, mellow mood, and confidence in my know-how that hooked my heartstrings from the get-go; The same kind of slogans being shouted from the stands of the masses is blasting away from the lips of my love. Before I comprehend the clutter I discontinue to pay it attention.
The isle of exile is long and populated though not necessarily as a permanent residence by any means. Many of the census come and go, though some never leave once admitted. Unsolicited direction is the most common offense to wind one up on Exile Isle. This isn’t to say I oughta be completely self-directed but shit, all I ask is for what I give. Bare minimum. The last conversation you will hear from my mouth is one based around the idea that I should know better for someone else than they themselves know. Whatever secondary emotion this primary example is rooted around matters nil. Its this stage that opens more doors for more resentment. Often emotions like “concern”, “worry”, and “love” are the piggyback that is needed to harness the unsolicited sermon. I appreciate being cared about, just not at the cost of alienation. How rare for the former to not cause the latter.
And so, do I clam up and toe the company line, for fear of pushing away the lips, love and company of a companion I cherish infinite over and back? Apparently not. Not totally, anyway. Harboring such hostility has my ulcers bleeding at a rate that outperforms clotting potential. My expressions aren’t done in retaliation or spite. They are simply the beat up ramblings of a rebel writer, that can’t sit stagnant too long before they start to fucking rust. Once they hit the pavement of being published thats where they live forever. Once written out, the right to resent is gone. The potential power it holds is stripped away as fast as a brandy soaked baptist sucks up cheap drink. Just like that, the homeostasis is leveled and the equilibrium balanced. Until next time.. Ta-Ta for now..
Its an internal struggle
Its kinda subtle
It screams when I feen
It whispers, It mumbles
Kinda hard to comprehend
Its like an Army marching in
Like the heart of starving me
Its a twisted up sequence
Sniff, puff, recess
Kiss the lips of Jesus
As he sips up his secrets
Thats out brother man
Drugged up junky man
Eyes so sublime
In a blacked out wonderland
Got friends of all races
That sense his frustrations
Cant make it six seconds
Without succumbing to temptation
He tells us that he loves us
And a bunch of other lies
Its only me, Cant you see
No I see otherwise
Making passes at thunder thighs
Beneath the 7th layer of Dante’s Inferno, far past the beggars and whores, liars and thieves, in their own cornered off section as to make a spectacle ya see? Always a spectacle with these swine. The typical, and perhaps one of the original, Boy’s Club of brawn. Reeking of cheap bourbon and old mahogany, with a half snubbed out cigar wafting about. The stand here and don’t say a word, “I object”, all for the bargain of a few hundred an hour…Lawyers. That’s right, lawyers. I can not tell you how lucky I have gotten with my judge greaser, I swear I must have made a nun squeal in a past life because the heavens have blessed me the light friendship/better acquaintances sort of relationship with an excellent attorney for highway robbery rates. It’s an absolute beauty of a deal.
If only I just hit publish and sent the entry through, right? Like holy shit. A solid paragraph of me first outlining a hatred for yet another part of life but then putting a heavier than even my heaviest optimistic of spins on it. When life has it as such, where all I did was waltz around joyfully and it leaked into my creative outpour, I know suicide is close. Yes. If even my writing became clouded over and overtaken by a plastic sort of clone of myself, that would be the time I totally stopped amusing myself; which I have always said to be my internal indicator for me taking my life. Luckily (for those who want me around, anyway), I’m not ending this screed, I am not a fucking clone and I sure as shit am not suicidal. Got that?
No. It would almost be easier if I were suicidal. Actually, I know it would be. See, if and when I become suicidal, I have a hint I might follow through, but moving beyond what isn’t so. No, I have a far more complicated symptom. Not plural, just one. My old favorite, anhedonia. That’s right folks, a complete and total joylessness is how Webster eloquently articulates its meaning, except thats not how I feel. Thought I wad taking an easy way out, didn’t ya? Yea, you did. Going with anhedonia, gonna whine about tbe lack of love and how his world is grey for 2 thousand words. Nope. Not today, anyway.
See, the actual, no bullshit ordeal that has me by the balls is your every day, chemically imbalanced, anxious/depressed mess. It’s totally stemming from an isolated incident or involvement, that being my impending legal doom. It is the single most depressing fact of my reality, both past and and present, that I must sit in jail a year. I wont say anymore about it, so not to alienate one of the last respectable people to bat for me, in my lawyer.
Of all the miserable ordeals a life addicted to drugs can present you with and prepare you for, having to wait around like fattened up Holsteins or an Arkansas Razorback that is wanted 4 counties wide for tearing through livestock like a weed-eater or a garden tiller. Each day you wake up is just another set of hours closer to being on the family dinner table. Except in my circumstance, the state departments dinner table. It is a stomach churning process when you are nabbed off the street and brought into jail, unknowingly and unsuspecting, but to having to wait for months on end, only to be served more hypotheticals that sound a bit lousier than the time before, is pulverizing.
Its like ever conversation I have is sort of a lie, and each act of progression is a muted move, because regardless of how picturesque my performance is, I still must go lie with dogs for 12 months. Filthy, cunning mutts without a better agenda than to knock you off of yours. Maybe I’m crazy but I have always felt that some humans are better suited for life as an inmate than others. Like there is a certain predisposition within certain members of our species that are more trainable and are better off being lead around. Unfortunately, I don’t fit that category. Im the antithesis of authority.
So what has me so down and out, right? Its not like this is unfamiliar territory for me. That’s where you’re wrong. See, while I have shoveled my share of shit over the years, I had always been able to sort of sort it out later on. Ya know, weasel through the cracks after getting greased up good before the deal. Not anymore. I have officially exhausted all chances of immunity by ignorance and they know better than to ask me to go nuts and turn evidence, so I guess I end up as chopped pastrami. The worse thing any idiot can do is start asking advice from people who wear the same color as himself. That was a saying in jail 10 years ago when I did my original bit, when jackoffs started playing jailhouse attorney we’d shout, “Don’t take legal advice from guys wearing orange”. Its amazing how many still did.
Aside from being a slave to this situational depression, the fall air has crept in comfortably and the poles have shifted without a hitch. Our justice system is no better than those of shit flinging baboons if it is seriously so rigid and uninviting that I ought to feel intimidated for speaking what I actually feel like saying. It’s neither rude or full of expletives, but because it could be perceived as rebellious or otherwise contentious I best keep my trap shut. All I feel like saying is what a colossal waste of time, resources, and potential to keep me kenneled for a year. Why not earn some dollars and cents from the brow of my back! I better not give them too many ideas. Ill keep carting cadavers through Kuwait in some outback sponsored regime, off the grid and radar and left for dead. Ta-Ta for now.
0600 Hours…Thursday Morning… Methadone Clinic…Group Room
..,One of the most redeeming characteristics a counselor can have about themselves is actually the absence of one attribute: pettiness. By the time an addict has reached the typical stage in addiction where drug replacement therapy seems applicable, the last fucking agenda we feel like hearing is that which is based in an anally retentive atmosphere. Im more abstract than your average idiot, but for the life of all that is righteous I cannot see the correlation between sustained sobriety and say, keeping your feet on the floor or not having a baseball cap on indoors.
The counselor leading the today’s early Thursday group, we’ll call her Tonic, is the epitome of all things not petty. Tonic is your quintessential tom-boy chick. She looks, acts, and talks very Midwest America, which actually vodes well for her potential client base. While not everyone meshes perfectly with the ulta polite and nonabrasive, rarely does anyone feel threatened by them either. Tonic is admittedly a rookie in the AODA field, though her transparency surrounding her lack of experience and perhaps a bit of naive nature, actually helps build trust and raises her likability. More than any of the other staff at this clinic, Tonic is the counselor who could most easily be mistaken for a client, solely based on her approachable aura and humble attitude. That interchangeable/chameleon switch in her will be a huge asset if she sticks with this vocation.
Having a methadone clinic house as your honeymoon employer is an interesting beginning. Counseling in general is typically a career that is flaked out on within the first gig if it’s not meant to be. Hell, even when it does feel like its meant to be, this line of work can steal the sparkle from your eye; It can also sustain that spirit but one way or another, you’re biting off a large entree out the gate by choosing (usually) seasoned and weathered junkies. Some of this countries best con artists, thieves, 2 bit hustlers and life-long middlemen can be found dosing at a clinic, 1st task of the day. Im one of the weirdos who normally likes the creatures of the underworld and even I get disgusted by some of the rejects day to day as Im dosing. I can only wonder what some of the sewer filth flea bags that surface from time to time look like through the eyes of a person that has a vibe like Tonic’s; but isn’t totally hinged. She’s of the group who decided to help people after they couldn’t help their father/mother/brother/etc. Typically after some time these make solid therapists. The tendency for coddling and enabling to the point of of violating ethics runs high in this group. So bad they want to help that sometimes lines are crossed that shouldn’t be, greater good be damned.
So anyway, our group on Thursdays runs without a hitch because everyone respects the facilitator, Tonic, and vice versa. Todays group had a new member whose name isn’t important outside the fact that I cannot even fucking remotely remember what it was. Group began how it always does, with “check-in’s” of the week from everyone. A short, 1 or 2 minute rundown of the weeks vibe, running longer when applicable. When the new chick, who is kind of a round built, early 20′s tops, who was beaming with a strong desire to be liked but she changed my vibe you could say. She was harmless and nice enough and was quickly shaping up to be another insignificant somebody I would soon forget until her turn came for check-in and she said something to the affect of (paraphrasing), “Im just so, like, excited to be like, feeling normal again. Like everything is coming together and like yesterday was my 30 days clean”. You poor, clueless idiot. How I do not wish to be within a hundred mile radius of you once the air gets deflated from your brain-dead balloon.
Few times has someone been able to open the flood gates to so many different rivers of idiocy in just a single statement. I could take her obliviousness any number of directions and break down the doors of her delusions, piece by piece, but who has the time? I guess I of all people have the time and still cannot think of anything more boring than busting down the psyche of s simpleton. To blanket it all as best I can, she is of the ever growing by number but never in substance group of people in recovery that have themselves safety-belted on a pink cloud. Im more open minded than
any pragmatic person and couldn’t detest elitist assholes more if I made it my life’s work, but the head in the clouds half the time and the other its up their asses sort of approach is unbearable. Its hollow. Nothing there. A total sponge.
I know nothing about finishing inpatient treatments, but no one knows more about starting, manipulating while there (in treatment), and dissecting my peers up until I get thrown out or quit. That sums up the 3 dozen or so times I started a treatment program. Point being I have seem thousands of addicts and alcoholics of all colors, creeds, till infinity. In all the personalities and genre’s or demographics, those whose fall hardest are those people wouldn’t foresee. The ones who talk about total transformation or being completely cleansed, saved, or are somehow recovered so much that they just aren’t addicted anymore. Those are the ugliest. The diluted bastards who think some amount of time or level of self awareness is going to lick them of the obsession and compulsion to get faded at an addicted level. Theirs is messiest because they’ve lied to themselves so long, that their denial tells them that even if and when they do relapse, it isn’t really a relapse anyway because they aren’t addicted anymore. This hopeless fuck has to go through the whole first phase of acceptance again, though likely will die before another shot at sobriety could be taken.
Nobody likes a buzzkill, I know, though having your head up your ass isn’t anymore appealing. Take your strides exactly for what they’re worth. Our ideas of a big deal is going to be vastly different compared to the normies and those with a few calendars in the books. Don’t fuck up a good thing by thinking it’s something other than what it actually is. On 2nd thought, who the Hell am I? Do what you want…