Tag Archives: needles

What Did We Learn on the Show Tonight, Craig?

meeewww?

There may be a correlation between the amount of writing done here on 23rd Street recently (none) and the degree to which we feel that we are ‘out of the woods’ as it were (the woods of substance abuse and drug addiction). This is, of course interpretive, based on denial and fueled by the expansion of time (i.e. distance from relative cessation of the hardcore substance abuse) and sealed into a pretty little envelope by the fact that we have come to believe that we are finally ‘normal’.

Then, all of the sudden, Craig Ferguson comes around to remind us that, you know, “remember the time when you were high all the time?” Nothing against Craig Ferguson at all. I’ve actually become acutely addicted to the non-sequitur slinging, late-late night Scotch-American. He’s awesome. In addition, there is nothing aggressively drugged-out about him, either. But, once in a while, he will regale the audience with a half-tale of his version of the 1980’s or just make known the fact that he has been sober 20 years or something. Then, back to regular shenanigans.

So, that is all good & fine. right?

Well, see now, part of my absolute affinity toward Mr. Ferguson is the fact that he was once a hardcore, falling-down hedonistic drunk person. Why?

I mean, one could probably easily connect the proverbial dots (as this is a sort of “addiction” blog-ish operation that we have going on here). But the answer to the aforementioned is much messier and possibly a lot different than the easy page of connect the dots would have one believe. In addition, just because ‘affinity’ is a positive affectation, doesn’t mean that everything that it manifests is positive.

The easy version of connect the dots would draw a picture of identification, I suppose. And this would be true.

I’ve never had “drug-friends”, even whilst doing drugs. And after it all, since I’ve never been in recovery… I’ve never had to sit in a place with chairs and people that tell stories of ‘rock-bottom’ and such. I’ve never viewed the recovery process or have any real concept of it, especially as it applies to an actual person, in real life. It could be all ‘unicorns and plastic chairs and little paper cups with withdrawal pills’ for all I know. Everyone has a minute concept of AA or whatever. I am no different. But my concept of it is exactly that: minute. Books and television. For a once hardcore long-term drug user, I have no more an accurate picture of recovery than a person that can use a remote control.

As such, it is identification.

The more detailed version (the messier version) involves the reminder. The reminder of, “remember that decade when you were high every day?”. Because it is a reminder… because you forget. Again, believing that we are finally ‘normal’ and have been normal for a long time. Its about the fact that recovery (or whatever we are doing at 23rd Street) really requires a shaving away or dulling down. Things, once turned up to 11 have to be dialed down to some volume and frequency that creates a sustainable way of life. So, one doesn’t, like… die. The thing is: this sucks. Its a horrible notion and even more horrible practice. Especially in the beginning. This exceedingly grey-ness of life. This grey-ness that one has to practice… until one forgets that they are doing anything at all…. until one forgets that grey-ness sucks.

And that is all well-and-good. …Actually, as mentioned before, it sucks. But it is what it is. We could stop there, but the fact is, there is more going on beside this uncomfortably antithetical forced changing of behaviour. With the voluntary-ish behaviour change that brings upon this grey-ness… conscious of it or not, at least in our experience, we are killing something. Something is dying. That part of one’s life or certain beliefs or that part of one’s person. Most likely, some cocktail of all of these things. I would be surprised if most people didn’t do it this way. Thinking about it, now, lets say …5+ years after the fact, it just seems easier to dial that shit down if some part of you allows certain things to “die” and accepts the fact. And long after one feels a bit physically in a different place, there exists this period of mourning for that thing that one consciously still has no clue one has killed.

I mean, that’s how death (however, metaphorical) works, I think, no? However it does work, apparently, no one ever really gets over a death of something they believed in so whole-heartedly & loved. This sounds trivial but I loved meth. I suppose I can’t say it that way because I still love meth. The fact that I haven’t done it in forever doesn’t change the fact. The fact that I was able to dial it down to a semi-sustainable level and ‘forgot’ about it in a visceral manner doesn’t change the fact, either.

Nothing does.

I guess on some level, I knew this. And so, the object was to forget. With the increasing passage of time, this sort of thing becomes easier and easier until it becomes more of a cognitive thing. The fact that you know that you love meth. The fact that you were a hardcore meth user. But the drug has been removed from any sort of visceral feeling.

Until that is some random late late show host reminds one of the visceral.

Its strange, this was the first time, possibly ever, that I felt the visceral excitement of being an addict since I’ve stopped the drug. I felt like one of those people in cocaine studies that are shown pictures of paraphernalia as their dopaminergic centers or where ever light up in their brain as if they were high.

This is where it gets a bit messy. This pseudo-high (as pseudo as it may be) is a pleasurable feeling. And all of these things that I thought that I killed (that haven’t been felt for years) come flooding back in a lovely saturated sweet tangerine segment burst in your mouth.

And it has nothing to do with being afraid of becoming a junkie again or anything. I have absolutely no fear of that happening. Its just… with this reminder comes this anticlimactic notion of, “so, here we are”.

Here we are, because, really, where can we be but here? But what is ‘here’?

In addition, it reaffirms the notion that you are different… not normal. And only certain people will be able to understand this part of you. This is no longer catastrophic as you’ve been able to detach meth and meth-life and needles from your personality. You’ve been able to detach the degree of passion and positiveness and importance as it applies to you, inherently.

I suppose this may be a good thing. Well, neither specifically good nor bad. Rather time’s affect on objective introspection?

And so it goes.

-just another extremely sloppily written post from the folks at 23rd Street

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the truth in the lie

“There comes a time when every kid peeks behind the curtain and sees she’s not the only one putting on a show. Fathers, mothers, cops and robbers… every member of the PTA, all playing dress-up… all in their masks: The constant Halloween. That first peek behind the curtain… the lifting of the mask, it’s a disorienting moment. The solid ground beneath you slips away to quicksand. Along with all you thought you knew. But you realize, as days and nights go by, that there’s a kind of truth in the lie… that the mask is often more revealing than the face that lies beneath… that because the person that you pretended to be (the mother, the father, the sister, the cop) became, somehow, the person that you are.” -In Plain Sight

It’s not that straight-forward… it’s not as discontinuous as a mask can provide. But it applies. I remember being obsessed with the notion that no one could ever really know any one else. …that no one could ever see all sides of another person and that the lens used to view would always have a neutral density subjective filter placed upon it. In fact, I wrote my first screenplay based on moments witnessed… pieces of the puzzle of who a person may or may not be. Put it together… figure it out. Or not.

I’m sure this isn’t a unique experience by any means, but at that time (and for years following), I felt the invincibility of my person. But more importantly, no obligation to “be something”. It is personal freedom to the highest caliber. Left with no burden to even exist at all. I can’t be sure why I felt so safe sticking needles with stimulants in my veins. But that’s not true, either. I guess that I believed nothing certain about myself except for my invincibility. My ability to, for lack of a better term, stand outside of all experience and observe. Rendering all of my actions, merely actions. Needles and coke and meth and ecstacy and dilaudid… anything, by this definition became things that couldn’t touch me because it was impossible.

And somehow, everyone else was so subjective that everything that they did affected them. They were fully-formed human beings with very strong views on character and people. …fully-formed human beings, unchangeable but affect-able.

And in this manner, as well, I was not a drug addict. I was a person that performed an action. Buying and doing drugs is the same as going to Rite Aid for eyeliner and walking across 23rd Street to work. Even, level… the same.

This is why I hold this time in such high regard. I created a way in which I could do anything. And I did. The error in this manner of thinking is that one is not invincible. And though it makes it completely possible to do everything and chalk it up to an “action”; though there may be no burden to exist or be something, every action will and does affect the person that you are. As under-developed it is or as much as one has created a mechanism wherein they can deny the existence of it at all. Everything affects one… you… something, because, like the rest of the human race, you are a person.

I didn’t think of myself a drug addict for a very long time. And then, I secretly (or not) reveled in the idea that I might be one. And then, I held onto the definition for dear life as one of the most important components of who I, as a person, am. Basically, I accepted a certain version of day-to-day reality. Age, evolution and the fact that to “be something” is now an obligation. And though it took that “decade under the influence” and longer, even… it feels more like a swift, half pirouette. Where my head has snapped, more quickly than the eye could detect, to a position exactly opposite of where it was half a second ago.

And though I’ve always been able to hide it well… I felt that I was internally, somehow (and inconsistent with everything I’ve said here) inherently, a drug user. Furthermore, I was a person… subject to all the personal consequences of action and experience.

And there you go.

Now what?

This is the grey zone. Because I was always a functional this or that and because I didn’t technically make a statement to the effect of “I’m not doing drugs anymore”… because I’m not in recovery… because I still drink; I felt things hadn’t changed enough. Fuck, who even knew that I was a heavy drug user to begin with to know that I stopped using drugs at all?

Furthermore, I didn’t make this decision.

In a way, you could say that my actions made the decision and I carried-out my actions. But, it’s not that simple. Even a month or so prior to this time, if my dealer had up-and-disappeared (as was the case), I would have gone scouring Los Angeles for meth. And I would have found some. I had, I believe 5 separate meth dealers as detailed in The Bus Ramblings… in Los Angeles in roughly 2 years. Only Frank in NY (and he wasn’t just meth… and that spanned atleast double the aforementioned time). But this time, in LA, I was just over it, somehow. But also, I can probably also attribute maybe 75% of the “just over it” to the quality of crap-ass meth that I was getting.

None of this matters, of course. And though I finally felt a pathetic-ness of being a drug addict, there was a HUGE-ass part of me that reveled in drug culture, drug experience, drug everything. I was just now aware of just how much I couldn’t talk about it. And without the drugs to make me forget about this whole thing, felt exceedingly stifled. And not only this… but because I had krazy-glued this notion of myself as a drug person into my fiber… I felt like a fraud; a liar. …and a bit digressively, empty.*

*to be addressed in a future post.

But this is where the quote comes in, one might see themselves as a definitive thing and thereby fraudulent by acting in seemingly unnatural ways… I suppose this would be the mask they speak of, but:

“…you realize, as days and nights go by, that there’s a kind of truth in the lie… that the mask is often more revealing than the face that lies beneath… that because the person that you pretended to be… became, somehow, the person that you are.”

It feels unbelievable… incorrect, even. But time… small increments of moments and then; the whole thing… I mean, if you stick around long enough… it sounds retarded, I know, but it starts to feel possible. …And sometimes, when one takes stock… if one’s privy to that sort of thing, one realizes that, in one’s own continuous manner, it’s been happening the whole time, maybe? Slowly; molasses-ass slowly, but happening none-the-less. I don’t fuckin’ know. I just know that I’m different now than when I started this whole thing (when I thought that I’d never really be able to do the adult thing; do the responsible-thing… I’m a great actor. I could pretend tremedously, but would also only ever be excited by what I really am: a drug addict)… I just know that it is possible to change while still remaining the same… if that makes any sense to anyone. And I do believe all of this rests on time… the passage of time.

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AA the only way?

Referring to basically all of my posts as of late. You know, ‘why is AA the only thing?’ blahblahblah…

An Alternate Road to Recovery

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American Idiot (the musical) and me (the liar)

YaY!

There It Is!

Well, first thing’s first. It’s been a while, but the ‘forever liar’ thing that comes alongside drug addiction has reintroduced itself into my, now, faraway (ish) existence. During this sort of transitional period, limbo, etc… I’ve been able to throw it into my layered mix as a person in a subtextual manner while creating this cocktail of my person that is, say: the author v 2.0. The crude sort of ‘I’m no longer a hardcore drug user’ goal/endpoint was to become a normal, functional person… then it was to become adult.

Ahhhh, for such a believer in the continuous to think in such a retarded discontinuous manner.

And, now, I find myself here. Relatively functional (on prescription medication)… much more confident… and having my biggest asset to anyone being that I am young and hip and cool and intelligent. Privy to all the blinking lights that is this new communicative sphere of technology while maintaining my cute techno-geek humanity, and furthermore, making older people wet with my generationally-genetic makeup of pieces of three or four mini flares of generations and how that translates into $$ that they understand can only happen moving forward.

All of this meaning that, in time, I have… grown up a bit (not enough, some say), remained focused on the reason for the (now, prescription) drug usage (to remain a functional human being), and capitalized off of the movie “The Social Network”… redefining the word ‘adult’ in a monetary/business sense.

Great.

So, one can now be young and immature but a feasible money machine… an employee… a business-person. But it’s still not really socially acceptable to be a drug addict. Thus, this returning loathing feeling of having to lie (at least in omission) for the remainder of my life.

Rewind:

Dated: 24 Jan 2002

Secrets & Lies

Sitting in physical therapy today, with my hand warming from the heat pad, I felt that my life was full of secrets and lies. Why am I in physical therapy? I injured my wrist. How? I got an infection. Oh, in your wrist? Yeah, it got septic and I had to undergo five weeks of IV antibiotics. How did you get the infection? Um…that’s where I have to start lying to people. Well, I don’t know. These things sometimes happen spontaneously. Um, I was drunk and I fell. So, no one really knows the whole truth. Then, there’s the doctor. I have a doctor’s appointment. ‘doctor’. Meaning psychiatrist. I’m on this ‘medicine’ that I’m not supposed to drink or do drugs on. I’m just going to be lying forever to everyone. That can’t be good for my karma, huh? But I guess when it comes to psychiatric assistance and intravenous drug use, it’s more efficient for me to lie. I mean, I gotta do what I gotta do, right?

This could be a million years ago, as far as I am concerned. Shortly after the IV coke and well-before the IV meth. This was a specific lie of times past. But the feeling, now, is still similar.

See, I’ve sort of stumbled upon a business ‘mentor’ of sorts whom thinks that I am the bee’s fuckin’ knees. Apparently, I have integrity and there are three things he hates… one of them being lying. But if I really were to be truthful… this would never go down, you see.

So, there’s that. Kids, if you do drugs, to this capacity and make it an integral part of ‘you’ as ‘you’, even 8+ years down the line, there will still be times that creep up on you where you feel like you… as ‘you’, again have sort of condemned (not in a god-way) yourself a liar forever.

So, that sucks.

Okay, so… Finally!!! American Idiot!!!!

ummm…. strobe-y.

I have a million things to say about the show. I fuckin’ love Green Day. And I appreciate them the most for being one of the only artists to create art reflecting the transitional generation that exists between X & Y…. the suburban ennui… and the fact that I can play songs with three chords on the guitar.

But for current 23rd Street purposes (drugs and all), the author, here will focus on 3 things.

1. It is a musical, so it’s on a stage. I don’t have to tell anyone that everything needs to be larger, bigger in breadth than say, a film. Details are conveyed in different ways in these two media. Though, American Idiot plays with this notion as well. The blinking boxes and the media. So, Johnny, becomes a bit of a junkie after leaving suburbia. A needle-type junkie. All good. Whatever. Our seats were pretty fuckin’ good, though. But still. But the theatre prop needle is there, as is the prop spoon and tourniquet. And the actor mimes shooting up. And all the televisions built into the backdrop project an extreme close up of sizzling powder in a metal spoon. It was what it was… but still, it gets me. My thighs, oddly enough, tingle. And possibly because I knew how much of a prop everything is, I watch closely at Johnny and his tourniquet and his needle with laser-focus intent. There’s no need to say that I love it and I hate it and I knew this was the most safe kindergarten version of the act… so, it was safe for me to stare.

2. I once had a tryst with Mr. “Leaving West Hollywood”. He liked the song “Give me Novacaine”. (That’s how it’s spelled). This was… still is, the one song that makes me feel a bit sick. Possibly because I’ve coined Mr. “Leaving West Hollywood” as his moniker in reference to the grudgingly sad alcoholism of “Leaving Las Vegas”…. which aforementioned tryst was. Marinating our livers in alcohol in an apartment in West Hollywood… I cannot really even think of it to this day without feeling bad. “Give me Novacaine” is a number in the show. I thought about Mr LWH while watching it. It makes me feel a bit sick. It also makes me, for seconds, miss him. He is a good guy. …and he is now fine, it seems. As fine as any of us can be, anyway.

3. Lastly, for now, the show has this same youth/adult discontinuous gloom as I did. Somewhere toward the end, the punk kids from the beginning come back, dress-shirts and ties… power suits… some still un-grown punks… a young amputee war veteran. Like these things are the only options. I realize then, that I used to think this, too. Youth… Adult… and never the twain shall meet.

How adorably naive was I?

And now, I give you 2 options:

option #1:

Pros: is comprehensively the better of the two.

Cons: very strobe-lighty (which affects the viewing quality quite a bit) & has stuff  (faggot, fuck, etc.)*bleeeped* (ghey).

Pro or Con: a bunch of Billie Joe talking in the beginning. But if you believe this to be a con, and don’t know how to “fast-forward”, you are retarded.

option #2:

Pros: Exactly as you would see it in the show (curtain and all) & strobe doesn’t affect viewing quality at all.

Cons: Camera person is high. Focusing on all the wrong things.

& just because its my favorite:


In the end, if you can, go see it.

PS. I don’t like AFI (the band) all that much at all really, but I just found out that Davey Havok played St Jimmy (drug dealer) in the cast that I saw. eh. No Billie Joe to say the least, but atleast it wasn’t Melissa Etheridge.

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The 6th Time’s the Charm!

I can’t sleep.

needlemania!

I don’t judge…. I’ve gone far past 6. Double-digits, even. But was always excited for a new rig.

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Waiting for the End

KROQ-FM

Image via Wikipedia

So… I like this song.

…I do this alot.

What is this?

Oh, yeah, you, the proverbial audience of one or two or most likely, zero, exist outside of my own thought process. I am so self-absorbed that I frequently ‘forget’ the wall between kiko-thought/conveyance of aforementioned thought (via speech, action or through any other physical manifestation) otherwise known as ‘communication’/reception of thought by 3rd party A (again the proverbial “you”) through 3rd party A’s particular schema of the moment.

words words words.

I believe this is what some people refer to as a stall. eh.

I like this song. I sit on a bucket seat in transit (forward-facing and fancy-free) and randomly hear this song. I’ve never heard this song before. I am on that other coast on an early-ish train to a Wall Street address (where the production company has set up shop) and continue my employment as a denizen of the world… albeit, artistically so.

My contacts stick to my eyes as per the ‘yuse’. I nod and and wake… again, as per the ‘yuse’. Production is killer, man. If I ever needed to remain awake for days at a time… this would be it. And, of course, no needles, no Frank meth… but that is another story.

So… KROQ FM. That west coast place… car culture‘s mecca. I miss it…. the station. I used radio as my version of time. And, at that point, I needed some version of time. Numbers and clocks freaked me out too much. Representations of numbers and clocks via radio-things… it could all work out…

flashforward… I am no longer in the west coast place. I miss the mask of time that I so lackadaisically though stringently relied on. But I can deal with time now… to a degree… I just miss the ‘mask’. I download this spotty shoddy radio “companion”… nobex… or something? and so, in blips that stop then start then flow…

I hear… CLICK>> waiting for the end <<CLICK.

I slowly dig.

really dig. bopping my head….

Then, I realize that it maybe… yes…

is it? can it be…

it totally is… linkin park.

Fuck it, I don’t care.

For all of their avril lavigne candy-chord-rape ‘o da masses, their mundane watery techno-esque-alterna-rock-ish fusion, that stupid little shit chester or whatever his name is… I like the song.

I like it.

Somehow, I’m obsessively listening to it.

…and it may be exactly because of this aforementioned “candy-chord-rape ‘o da masses/mundane crack-whore appeal to the most primal of feel-gooooood head bop shit” that I am.

But fuck it.

And so, the this that I do alot is become pre-obsessed with a song, film, etc. before I actually know what it is.

But now I think it’s a good thing.

I don’t fuckin’ care…

right now… before it becomes anything… before others can put some sort of cultural stamp on it, I’m saying that I like it.

the end.

its the risk that i take… biatch.

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Speed Demons

Speed Demons

Article by: Karl Taro Greenfeld
Source: Time Magazine
Date: Sunday, March 25th, 2001

Instructions: READ IT because it’s awesome. please. Also, it has a cultural component that this blog is De-void of. I mean, people get hooked on speed in other countries and all. It’s not just mememememe! Speed and ghetto Asian culture to me is like… well, Speed and ghetto Asian culture. My metaphors are awesome. However, it does tap into trendy early ninties money Japanese culture… mmmmm, that’s like Murray’s everything Bagels with Olive cream cheese. Or alternately, Frank-Meth, needles and the dirtiest of dirtiest Grey Goose Martini’s in a random party somewhere on the UWS and/or UES.

droooooooooooooooooooooooooool…….

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Quotes from the Other Side

“It’s not like I was an alkie or anything. Alcohol is for cleaning needles…”
Jerry Stahl

Thank you, drive thru.

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The St Vincent’s Investigation [pt I]

I’ve resumed my quest (and it, at this point, has indeed become more or less a mysterious puzzle/quest) in trying to figure out which four days in 2001 I had called St Vincent’s my extended purgatory.

St Vincent’s… the hospital… NY, NY 1-0-0-something-something (1-3, maybe).

It began as mere curiosity. (had always been a lingering detail in the back of my head which my organizational slice of brain fed just enough to keep on a special sort of life-support… it sort of screamed, “I want the paperwork… the details, etc” in that sort of scream that one screams in their sleep wherein no sound is made and everything around one closes in.)

And for a long time this mere curiosity is all it could ever be, as I flailed around for the next 6 1/2 years or so, in one epic fog followed by another.

…my own version of the epic fog-thing, anyway. One in which complete detail-oriented-focus fogged the long-term consequential stuff…. you know, life in general and all.

Meaning, my intense micro-micro clarity was the tool used to obliterate any macro clarity or concept thereof that I might be able to grasp. Consequence-based future. Meth is strange like that. Strange and lovely.

And so, it was always there, the desire to obtain and read said paperwork… notes… anything… everything. There is a part of me that is a scientist by nature. As I flail in my epic fogs, I record the findings or, at the very least, random observations, if there is no theory to record findings from. I fancy myself a psychonaut writer. And I believe my ideas fascinating and possibly insightful. Awww.

But the thing is, I was (psychonaut writer). And they may have been (ideas, fascinating and possibly insightful).

And it all started out very very detailed. I mean, if you can dig that. It was all very adorable… I isolate and number each drug experience and categorize by type of drug, class of drug, location of ingestion, amount of ingestion, activity, combination, etc… Record all of the aforementioned into my little spreadsheet that I create and entitle: ADU (approximate drug usage). I mean, atleast, for approximately 3 1/2 years… before the very detailed specifics became a bit more muddled.

In so saying, even all these years post- …that, it’s easy to understand my overwhelming desire to get my hands on actual medical data that pertains to recreational drug use. MY recreational drug use. This sort of thing excites me.

Secondly, and just as importantly, I feel that it will validate my existence as a person that is, or at one point, atleast, had been, alive, on this planet. It gives me weight somehow. Prevents me from drifting off and evaporating into the atmosphere. *poof*

WTF?

What the fuck is right. Why would I need my existence validated? And furthermore, how, would records of a hospital stay due to intravenous drug usage that led to a septic infection do this for me? A stay that I adamantly fought against…. didn’t think that I needed… ultimately, didn’t acknowledge.

Well, there you go… there it is… I just didn’t get it. The whole thing. The entire… whole… thing. That whole, I’m-in-a-hospital-because-I-use-needles-to-shoot-drugs-I-buy-from-the-guy-in-the-car-thing.

…wait, not the the guy in the car yet. It would have still been Washington Heights-guy, I suppose.

Crackhead.

…I mean, but this whole thing… that’s another story.

This is my semi-catch phrase. “that’s another story”. Stolen, I’m sure… I don’t care. I use it frequently… so, catch-phrase it is. However, unlike when I’ve said this any time in the past, this is a particular story that I have not yet traipsed the fields of. Or even really considered (the weight… the validation… my need for these particular things). I might be lying… but I don’t feel like I am. My usual “that’s another story” presupposes a mischievous glint in the eye and railroad-track smile that work as a dam or fence, preventing “the other story” from gushing out and side-tracking the whole thing.

A digression prevention device, if you will. That’s how it functions for me. Just this time, my clenched teeth hold nothing back and there exists no knowing glint behind my eye. The Chesire Cat has long left me. … I mean, atleast as this particular story goes.

And so, it is what is. And for whatever reason these things feel to me as if they would fulfill certain questions or validate certain existences… I am now, again, on the hunt. With my newly cleared-head, in the very early part of this year, 2009… I feel that I am ready.

And with this, it would seem easy enough…

…hmm…

 

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25 Things About

ME!!!

[the director’s cut… but then again, everything on 23rd street is the director’s cut]

25 random idiosyncratic things about me “that you don’t know” but mostly never asked to know and therefore pretty much have no vested interest in knowing.

but… I want to play the game.

Games are fun. 😉

So:

1. My hair is such a physically binding assurance in my existence. This doesn’t mean that I’m so dependent on having hair. Just anything that has to do with my hair at any given time, is a reflection of how I actually am… at said time.

2. I’m drunk.

3. I love needles and veins. I love that my blood is darker than most. It makes me feel more substantial. But I’m not into the whole vampire/cult/retarded fanboy thing… categorically. Goth, Emo… whatever… they can party with Christianity and Jesus because they are all the same. I mean, I’m all about people doing what they want, it’s just not my thing.

4. I am very selective about what transverses my brain, stomach, heart.

  • Not all drugs are drugs to me… not every high is one I want to partake in. I mean, I love drugs [but that’s another story].
  • I feel my brain atrophy as I read and/or view categorically brain-rotting material. So, I limit myself… almost a bit too much.
  • Oranges are safe. As is Diet Raspberry and/or Peach Snapple Iced Tea.

5. Oh, you Vegans. Rogue-ish cads, you. I like sushi… shucked oysters, sea urchin… I like Darwin and that whole survival of the fittest-thing that’s so popular with the kids. You know, science. As a child, shark fin had this rolly peculiar tough crunch on my teeth. Health is important, and my diet could be categorized as a seafaring vegetarian alcoholic… but I’m not ‘saving the animals’ by not eating them. And neither are you.

6. The lowest weight I’ve ever reached was 77 lbs., honestly. It doesn’t seem very low.  I weighed myself when I woke up. I’m sure, by the end of that day, I was 1 or 2 lbs lighter. But, for categorical purposes, I can only be sure of 77. Not very low.

7. I’m still drunk.

8. I don’t have 25 things… I’m not that interesting and/or self-absorbed. Wait, that’s a lie… I don’t have 25 things, but I am that interesting and self-absorbed… or maybe just that self-absorbed. Interesting is… your call.

9. Oh, knowledge is power. The more information you have, the more proficient you are at reading people, the better you can catch was is being thrown at you and digest it… the more power you yield. I love power!

10. I want meth. I’ll settle for dexedrine spanules… in all their time-released anti-glory. And it’s actually okay… if I never do meth again, I think. I just decided. The chemical makeup of dexedrine works. It does something that only meth could ever do… just… I don’t get ‘high’.  And, thus, I would, in a heartbeat, take any meth offered me. Make no mistake. I LOVE METHAMPHETAMINE and it’s brothers, sisters and first cousins… especially 4-methylaminorex.

11. I love arugula and grape tomatoes. and sour things… like lemon juice.

12. If I die… I’m dead. Whatever happens after that, is not my problem.

13. I don’t know… I mean, seriously, people have 25 things?

Standby…

Oh here we go:

14. I don’t understand that I’m not invincible. I still haven’t gotten it.

 

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