Tag Archives: Fuck

In Other Denial for Convenience’s Sake News…

House had to deal with something major… in the absence of a crutch.

Major.

Important. Absolutely so.

human

No vicodin… but vicodin hasn’t been part of the picture at all. No thought about it at all.

really.

Gone.

Mistakes have been made. And things have gone wrong and things have gone right. He’s fucked things up… and then redeemed himself. or whatever. and then, fucked things up again.

…and, this time, we are made to think that he will not deal. fuck things up again.

but we all hope that he will.

and when he does what he does….

… when he shows up… when he is there….

we accept it. 7 seasons in. not the best narrative. but reassurring…. humanistically?

we wanted him to be there. and he is.

blah blah.. fuckin’ blah.

and House will die with all the great shows that have come and gone.

and it’s not that bad… really. It’s reassuring.

But it’s also become a fuckin’ soap opera. but a well-written one.

so, there it is. I don’t expect anything more.

and then, it fuckin…

rocks. my. world.

vicodin was two seasons ago. gone. not a part of any narrative for 2 entire seasons.

some writer on the show has to be a drug addict.

…or a fuckin’ retarded hypocrite that exploits truth for fiction’s sake.

either way…

I mean, aren’t we all?

That being said, it makes me think about my own life. I don’t deal with anything. Unless, that is… I’m wasted. Or chemically altered in some way. He does it to avoid pain… and I do it because I don’t want to think about stuff that I don’t want to think about. So okay. Fine. I don’t want to address the underlying problem… I don’t want to address certain things. I get it. And nothing will ever be okay until I do. I mean, actually okay.

It will probably destroy me. But, at least I’m treating the symptoms is all that I’m saying here. And in the end, it probably won’t be enough… but hopefully, one day, I will be ready.

 

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A Safe Place …really?!

A Safe Place (NY Times)

…this actually exists.

fuckin‘ canada.

needles in canada. and only canada.

ONE PLACE.

to digress for a fraction of a second; BOARDS OF CANADA is awesome.

I’m ‘beyond’ the needle, yes. But only because my denial mechanism is such that it chills with balloons. It’s elasticity increases along with my blind third eye… like skin. Skin will stretch as much as it is called-upon to. My research is non-existent on this particular topic… but television has taught me about Obese Americans.. I have seen too many gastric bypass surgeries of people that I don’t know.

Whatever. Somehow people become 500 lbs. I don’t judge. Not the point. This is another story for another blog. My point is that a 16 year old compulsive overeater will not explode. Skin will accommodate. Stretch marks happen, yes… when skin is forced to quickly to expand… but it will expand.

…I haven’t touched a needle in such a fuckin long time. …I haven’t all those visceral things that I’d rather, at this point, blur as the general ‘visceral thing’.

And that’s what I’m saying, the denial mechanism that I possess is so elastic that it can balloon around this lie.

I’m lying.

When it comes to this, I have to look away. I can’t think about the needle… I can’t look at the needle… I can’t watch a needle slide into a basilic vein… I can’t… “Intervention” or whatever the hot new “stop doing drugs/alcohol” show = fine. Someone pulls out a needle, and the belt and vein and spoon = cant. do. it.

alaglahlala (this is a drooling-type noise)…. the crimson cloud.

Whatever drug of choice. However destitute or homeless or old money-damaged a junkie… doesn’t matter.

Even my denial mechanism, though strong and extremely elastic, cannot compete with the sight of a nice, new orange cap on a B&D, 19 gauge, 1 or 1/2 cc syringe and the prospect of what lay underneath. B&D is the champ… but of course, it doesn’t have to be B&D… it doesn’t have to be a 19 gauge needle… short… long… doesn’t matter.

The point… I don’t know.

I’m so physically far away from my needle wielding junkie self; but I still have to look away. I can’t watch this in it’s entirety. So you see, it; whatever; this whole thing is not completely about drugs; it’s about the visceral, it’s about control; it’s about the a kid thinking that she is a psycho-naut… thinking that she is street but smart… it’s about the reconcilable notion of the aforementioned. Its about the taste of saline emanating from the sides of one’s tongue outward and in the back of one’s throat when one would shoot it when one ran out of drugs.

It’s not an original notion of course. But I don’t do original. Rather, I don’t care. I just ‘do’. Original is for ass-fucks that need to be original. whatever.

But this place exists.

Now, coming full circle, this place exists where one can go to stick a needle in whatever vein is still non-collapsed. And it’s okay… it’s actually the entire function of the organisation. Insite… or however they spell it. Are you serious?!

Even I’m not that retarded… or maybe I’m just jealous.

I still cannot wrap my head around this whole thing…. you know, because of the denial and all. I’m a proponent of non-absenance. Like, everything is continuous, not discontinuous. Like, the only option is never to touch a drink… WTF?!-type abstenance. Addicts are extremists (for the most part)… extremist treatment will never help an extremist.

Well, maybe it can, but it’s behaviorial and based in fear and maybe one will never touch the substance ever again… but they will never be the same…

ever

again.

Its not about being ‘the same’, per se. But if you are one that turns it up to 11 and you’re told that you will die unless you turn it down and live at 6… you are not really you. You will never really be you again. In this capacity, I cannot really comment, however… so far, I’ve done my version of, well, not dying… I am turned down though not to 6 and not anywhere near completely abstinent.

But in the same vein, I know that I can’t do needles. I don’t want to look, touch, PoP off an orange cap because I want to so badly. I need to do it. I salivate in time to a pavolivian dog.

In the end, what does this even mean? Maybe this is just my experience… and my junkie-dom was riddled with meth and cocaine… not a drug that causes the amount and type of physical dependency that a narcotic does. Though I have done speed balls and shot narcotics (just a lil trivia). But in my experience, I guess that I’ve pulled myself up from my bootstraps enough.

And I’m not a cultural messages person, so much (as I suppose that I am too self-absorbed and easily distracted)… maybe this goes beyond cultural messages. And I’m not like socialist… but treat people (even the junkies) the same as you would others (non-junkies)… I feel creating this place is too slippery a slope and almost going above and beyond to treat junkies better; welcoming us with open arms.

It’s a strange land that I currently have one foot in while the other stands tall in an even stranger land.

Wow… okay… thank you, drive thru… just beware the cops, I guess unless you are in Canada.

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DFW and Why Suicide still feels soooo Good

‘The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be or you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains constant. the variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s the terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling “Don’t!” and “Hang on!”, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

David Foster Wallace

I agreed with this for a long time because of the eloquence of the wording… because of the truth…

…but, you see… part of me… and just me, chill… desires a bit of the fall. …absolutely not the whole fall… but I’d be lying if I said that “It’s not desiring the fall”.

…because of the fear. But that’s the thing. We are stupid bitches retarded to our own flesh and it’s actual FLESH.

the live version and the dead version. cold. dead.

sorry, but david foster wallace was an example of the moderately mundane youth-ish ‘troubled’ white american man of yesterday.

I mean, are you serious?… this fuckin’ book… that weighs more than my torso?

Fuck you.

But, I get it… and I like that he was self-indulgent enough to go there… but 46 or something and then this explanation…

FUCK YOU.

Let the suicidal people of the world feel what they feel and kill themselves in the way that they’d like.

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