exhaustion

well, well, well…..i’m back. i have a new apartment. new bills. more stress. i’m fucking exhausted most of the time i’m awake and can’t sleep more than four hours at a stretch. when i can actually sleep. it’s almost five and i’m still up, doin laundry. wishing i was in bed with someone beside me. oh well.

so i’ve been having relapse dreams lately. dreaming about shooting dope is pretty bad, huh? wait til you wake up sweating because you just did a master blaster in a dream. heart pounding, hair tingling. i’ve been trying to assuage it with alcohol. it doesn’t work for very long. i’m dying for a drink now. maybe i should just start smoking weed again. it would make me a hypocrite. i’m seriously pursuing psychology and a certification as an LCDC. but, christ would i like to get high. i’m in a serious HALT situation. at least the last half of it. too lonely and too tired. fuck it, oh well.

happy halloween

well, another devil’s night and all hallow’s eve has come and gone. missed out on another. i haven’t been able to enjoy one in years. i worked this year. was locked up, in one way or another, for the last seven or eight. the last halloween i remember doing anything was when i went to my sisters house and we, as well as some of the neighbors walked around with a couple rolling coolers, dressed in costumes, drinking beers n shots, capering with the kids. that had to be ten years or more ago. maybe fifteen. wish i had a beer, or bottle. i’m growing more lonely, my sleep pattern is heavily disrupted. i catch myself sighing alot. i’m starting to have using fantasies and euphoric recall. perhaps i’m even starting to worry about myself. i’m an outsider to all those around me. i simply come from somewhere absolutely foreign to their understanding. i don’t think many of them would make it very far or long there. despite not wanting to return, it may be the only place for me. the guns, the drugs, the crime. the addiction. there, people want to hang out, have fun. play catch me if you can with the cops and the investigators and the other crooks. and that is always exciting and fun. i don’t laugh anymore. rarely smile. maybe i need a hobby. unfortunately, hobbies cost money and i barely have enough money to keep cigs in my pocket and food in my stomach. maybe a shot would help bring things into focus. or throw them so far out of focus they wouldn’t matter. i’m unsure, at this point, which i prefer. my job is an insult, for the most part. the wages are shit. i’m lonely, depressed, and can’t get ahead, can’t get back into my trade, my profession. i knew satisfaction when i had my career. i’m not sure, now, that i even spelled it right. another sigh. caught myself again. i’m so tired…

long time, no…

it’s been a while, has it not? guess i haven’t had anything to say. i’m back now, off parole. the strange thing is: i don’t feel any different. well, i do feel different. more disappointed, more frustrated. i managed to get accepted and enrolled in a technical school that was going to retrain and recertify me as a diesel mechanic. i even managed to get financial aid. that’s gonna have to be put off or forgotten about. i had thiss old charge that got brought up and i got it taken care of. however, it put me over five grand down. with the shit, go nowhere job i’ve got, there isn’t much hope of getting out of debt. not unless i get another shit, go nowhere job to go along with the one i have. i’m almost tempted to bust one off just to get on my feet, but, once it starts rolling i know there won’t be any stopping it. it almost makes me sad.
i’m thinking about exploring other options as far as higher education goes. maybe an L.C.D.C liscense. the community college where i am offers the course. i’m not sure i would deal with that amount of people interaction well. especially with addicts. we have a tendency to bitch, moan, and complain too much, make too many excuses, etc.
i really don’t have anything else to say, i suppose. other than i’m lonely. i’d like to meet somebody. somebody that makes me instantly understand why it didn’t work out with all the others. i’m done.

time goes by. . .

i don’t get high anymore. at all. i’m done with all that nonsense. i’m ridiculously proud of that. i wasted half my life getting high. i was insane you see. albert einstein said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. i always expected a different result. i expect a different result this time as well. i’ve changed things, however. i don’t get high, except on Monster. and work. i no longer willingly associate with people that use drugs. you see, i’m not “cool” anymore. and i really don’t care. i’ve changed my way of thinking. i used to want people to like me and want to hang out with me. i fucking hate people now, for the most part. my only concerns are work, bills, and me. in that fukn order. friendship doesn’t make the list. now, don’t get me wrong, there are some people i truly care about and sincerely wish to maintain the relationship/friendship. there is one that i would like to escalate things with, but, i’m not gonna hold my goddamn breath. life’s too short for that. my focus is wholly upon working and saving for my departure to school. yes, school. advanced diesel technologies will be what i’m studying. once i graduate, it will be a serious(hopefully) increase in my yearly earnings. i’m excited about this and want to get started. but, gotta wait for the spring semester and approval for financial aid/housing. i’m told that these won’t be a problem. we’ll see.

a.h.o.a, part five

so. where was i? oh yeah, i went fishing. and caught something. so the neighbors were a couple, we’ll call them archie and tammy, and their kids. the oldest, a boy, we’ll call him terrence, was a few years younger than me, but, solidly raised and taught. he was a full blown bowl roller, so i ended up having to smoke tha shit for a while until i could see where he stood on the point. as it was, he didn’t give a damn. his mom and dad shot dope. i actually found that out before he did, he had suspicions but nothing concrete. i had two cases of new points. i mentioned this to tammy one day and her head snapped around like it was on a spring. apparently they were having trouble getting new ones and i solved the problem. anyway. after a while of moving around in my home town with big ol pupils and bloodshot eyes, i began to run into old friends and connections. before much longer went by i was beating the price of quite a few local guys and getting retarded ass high. i’m talking dodging satellites high. for days and days at a time. weeks straight sometimes. i’ll tell an almost funny side story here.
i was adopted quite young. the only mother and father i knew was the ones that raised me. i had no idea i was adopted until after my eightteenth birthday. my biological mother was a townie party girl and bio father a dealer n crook. so. i’m just starting a real good bender, working on the beginning of day five in a row, no sleep, little to no food, occasional sips of liquid, besides the brushing of the teeth. i was sitting in terrences bedroom on the bed, with the blinds cracked open just barely, barely enough to see out. (his bedroom window looked straight at my driveway.) i was trying to shake off a monster shot of high grade rocket fuel when a black truck pulled into my driveway and a middle aged woman got out. i knew neither of them. the woman or the truck. this woman walks to my front door, knocks and engages one of the girls i was living with in conversation. now, these girls were not stupid. they knew what i did, (worked full time, hustled the rest of the time.) they benefitted from it. i cleaned the house. i did their laundry. i mowed the yard. i ran the weed eater. i carried out the trash. i gave them money when they asked for it. the only time these things didn’t happen is when i was gone for three, four days at a go, here n there. so this middle aged woman n this chick talk for a minute, and this chick, who is not stupid, who knows what i do, as well as, what i’ve been doing for days, turns, and i swear to god, points directly at me, looking at her through mini blinds that appeared to be closed. i interpret this as she is telling a complete and total stranger where i am. after five days of heavy meth use and absolutely no sleep i think that this was a poor decision on my roomies part and am making a mental note to address this when the strange woman starts across the yard toward the house. now, i had just done a monster. i know archie n tammy have each done a monster, because i gave it to them. and terrence was still smoking on the bowl i gave him. a fucking stranger knocking on your door has the tendency to ruin it. so i grab up this blue plastic bag from a large grocery and housewares chain, which, just happens to contain approximately thirty brand new needles and out the door i went, throwing a gotta go over my shoulder. as i’m crossing the sideyard with a smile and determined walk, sunglasses firmly in place, even though it’s around ten at night, this strange, middle aged woman smiles and says my name, with the question mark in her voice. still smiling i say yeah, what’s up, whacha lookin for. she replies with, “oh god, it’s so nice to meet you. it’s me,——. your mom.” i was prepared for a whole hell of alot of things to come out of this woman’s mouth. that wasn’t one of them. as a matter of fact, it stopped me dead in my tracks and wiped the stupid skitzer smile right off my fucking face. i literally froze. i think my foot was still in the air to take the next step. she never broke stride and her smile got bigger the closer she got. and then i snapped out of it. my head snapped down to the motherfucking bag full of syringes in my hand. then back up to her smile. and i swear to christ, i do, i knew that smile. and i fucking knew she was my mom.

a history of addiction, part four

so. i’m prez of the client structure, sellin coke to em. once i get ua’ed, all that comes to an end. my job, my hustle, my presidency. ha, fuck em. shortly before my impeachment a new guy came in. we’ll call him timmy. timmy was an okie, so he was a little off, but, cool. and it turned out he had a meth source, one of his family, living in agtown. now, i had sworn off drugs, the use of them, anyhow. so when i failed the ua, i was like, fuck it. so the next time timmy went to his fams house, i sent some cash with him. he came back with a half g of some good ol red peanut butter dope. and a couple new needles. i figured if i was gonna get high again i might as well go all the way with it. find out how deep the rabbit hole was, what all the fuss was about. after all, it’s just a little poke. boy, oh boy, if i only knew then…
my first shot of dope was done in the bathroom of halfway house, about three months after being released from a drug rehab program. hmmm, how can i describe it? if you’ve ever done one you know what i mean. i’ll put it this way, i didn’t know i could feel that good, or that hot. i went from zero to warp speed almost instantly. it felt like flying, like fucking the girl of your dreams, like being superman. it is not possible to describe it because words are inadequate. try it, you’ll find out. (a caveat here: if i finish describing something and finish it off by closing with, “try it, you’ll find out.” don’t. for fuck’s sake, don’t.) i was totally, completely, absolutely hooked on the needle after that. xanax is the exception. i quit smoking everything except coffin nails. if it would break down in water, i had to try it, just that way. i’ve even shot liquid lsd and pure mdma powder. meth is my demon, however. my demon meth is a beautiful, intelligent, sexy, cunning, and powerful bitch. she tells me lies and makes them true. she listens to my dreams and makes them nightmares. she accepts my emotions and gives emptiness in return. my demon takes my money, my thoughts, my love, and conscience. it gives nothing in return. that first poke of a needle was my undoing. it’s the undoing of many. timmy knew this, i think, at some level. i think he recognized something in me. maybe it was something in himself he saw, because, befor agreeing to hit me (shoot me up, for you civillians) he made me agree to only shoot dope with him for a few months. when i asked why, he said there were some things he needed to show me and some things he needed to teach me. timmy is the reason i am how i am about shooting dope. Syringes used twice, the needles removed, and either burned, thrown into dumpsters, put in glass bottles and dropped in recycling bins or put in a sharps conntainer and taken to a hospital or clinic. alcohol swab or wash the injection site. before and after. cleaning needles out immediately, never squirting the bloody water anywhere but in your own mouth. and never, never, never sharing needles with anyone but you’re ol lady. if you’re having sex with her without wearing condoms you’ve already got what she does n vice versa. sharing a point isn’t gonna matter. there’s much, much more. shooter’s etiquette. shooter’s respect. shooting with women. the differences between shooting into a vein and shooting into a muscle. you actually get higher on less dope, at least, at first. you have to account for that. shooting dope is harder on your physiology, you have to hydrate more as well as eat SOMETHING once a day. shower when it gets light, shower when it gets dark. brush your teeth at those same times. always wear sunglasses in public because your eyes dilate like a motherfucker. how to mix a shot of dope. how to properly assemble a shooter’s kit. (that’s a small case that holds syringes, a spoon or mixing vessel, cotton, alcohol swabs, a small, small container of clean, pure water, a baggie scraper, etc, etc.) it went and goes on n on n on. it really did go on for months. hell, we even talked about the philosophy of shooting dope. it was crazy. i thought it was kinda stupid at first. thought that for awhile. then after moving among shooters for awhile and seeing some dirty fucks shooting and being repulsed by them, i understood why timmy had insisted. shooting dope isn’t a hopeless, homeless dope fiends method of getting high. it’s in how you’re taught, how you’re shown. i’ve met engineers that shot dope. i’ve met rich, bored housewives that shot dope. i knew a cop that shot dope. a lawyer. but, i digress…
after a couple months went by i moved back to my hometown. a graduate of timmy’s college of shooting dope. i didn’t get high for awhile once home. i was working, had money saved, kept money in my pocket and was feeling like i had the world by the short hairs. i worked with this girl i had met a few years before and she had taken over the bills at her mom’s house, after her mom moved out. we’ll call this girl cessily. she was in need of another roommate. i was in need of a place to go. i was tired of living with my sister. we helped each other out. initially, it was myself, cessily, a chick named sandra. after about a month another female moved in named angela. she was a coworker of sandra’s and had ben kicked out by her mom for gettin high at home. angela was a serious bit of hotness. cessily is a littile blond hardbody. sandra was mediocre at best. anyway, the next door neighbors were always up at weird hours, there was always somebody working in the garage, their lights were always on, so, i went fishing one weekend with a few goodwill, icebreaker beers. and i caught meth connect. right next door. bonus.

a word to the wise

so. a word to the wise here, fellas, guys, dudes, and men. if while in a friendsip with a female, should you end up friended, stay friended. if for some reason, months or years down the road, the spontaneous happens, sparks start flying, chemistry is good enough that you could refine pharmaceuticals and you’re burning to get each others clothes off…DO NOT!!! FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!! be a bigger, better man and say no, that you can’t. that you won’t. cherish and appreciate your friend for her beauty, her intelligence, her sexiness, for being a great mom to her kids. keep her respect. keep her love. keep the conversation. it’s better to have a beautiful, intelligent, sexy woman as a friend than to have her as a memory of a friend. that’s all i got, for now.

a history of addiction, part three

so i killed him. some gasp at the flippancy i have if i talk about it, which isn’t often. as a matter of fact, i don’t talk about most of the violence i’ve seen or committed. moving right along. i bonded out and hid out for awhile, ran for awhile, and finally got it set for trial, the first of which ended in a mistrial. the second went off without a hitch and i’ve already said how it ended. during this time my substance cunsumption/abuse was steadily increasing. my meth use was skyrocketing. a few months after being acquitted i went to trial for my dope charge and accepted a plea for ten years defferred probation. like a fukn idiot. i SHOULD have just gone to prison and got it over with. lesson learned. as a condition of the probation i had to serve one hundred eighty days in jail, four hundred hours of community service, etc, etc, etc. like i said, should have just went to prison. i lasted about a year on probation, never passed a piss test. dirty for meth or weed or xanax every time. but i did manage to knock out all four hundred hours of community service before i got revoked. i sat in county jail for almost a year before being sent to safe p, (you hear that? safe p, not saint p you fucking morons.) i spent ten and a half months on that piece of shit unit, being told every thing i learned or was taught, or thought was wrong. fuck you. some was wrong, most wasn’t. they call these fucking places “behavior modification facilities”, “behavior modification” is a euphemism for brain washing. the nazis and communist russia had these same “facilities” they, however, were more pragmatic with their terminology and called them “re-education” camps. china and north korea still use them. anyway, ten and a half months there, four months in a halfway house. the halfway house was in the metroplex and is where i did my first shot of dope. i was twenty years old. and my love affair with a point began. i was working at the time in a full service high volume restaraunt featuring hot young women in white tanks and orange short shorts. one of the best jobs i’ve ever had. seriously, competitive pay, medical, dental, vision, retirement, scrip co-pay, and company parties all the goddamn time. half price food, free clothes. hot ass chicks that love to party. what the fuck more could somebody like me be looking for? at least at that time. i was beginning to have trouble at the halfway house. i had a counselor and he was always asking how much money i had. being slightly naive at the time, i was honest with this fuck and he used it against me. i typically kept between seven to nine hundred dollars on me at all times. i accomplished this by selling my free work clothes at half price, buying liquor for those that couldn’t leave, and selling coke. i was getting quarter ounces for a hundred ten. i could sell one in two days, bagged out in various increments. i was looking for a meth hookup and was striking out cuz i was in the wrong part of town. so i came in from work one day and surprise, surprise i get popped on a UA. i honestly wasn’t doing coke and pissed dirty for it. that’s when i learned that drugs CAN absorb through the skin. did i mention that i was the president of the client structure at the time? (client structure is something like student council, n i was the top guy, selling coke to about a third of the people there. Ha-Ha!)

a history of addiction, part two

i got high for the first time when i was thirteen. it was weed and i smoked with my two best friends at the time. let’s call them steve and johnny. i didn’t become a regular, let’s get high, kind of guy until after my dad died when i was fourteen. my substance consumption steadily increased, then spiraled into actual substance abuse when my mom and oldest sister were killed in a car wreck when i was fifteen. that’s when i started smoking meth. yep, smoking meth at fifteen. it was love at first hit. the tingles, the goosebumps, the huge cloud of exhaled smoke, loved it. loved it. little did i know the rabbit hole DOES, in fact, go deeper. i spent most of my high school years amidst clouds of weed smoke, speed smoke, piles of cocaine, and handfuls of pills, with the odd, here and there, ten strip of acid. an occasional dose of ecstasy, ketamine. good times. i almost died in a car accident on the last day of my senior year. due to the excessive intake of mickey’s, xanax, and some damn decent weed the previous night i was in no shape to get up early and drive. i don’t remember driving home, but, apparently, called it a night quite early. i’m told i was home and in bed, asleep, by nine or so. i was supposed to pick up a friend (the most georgous fucking female on the planet, then and now) and give them a ride to school. i almost made it to her house, thank god i didn’t. she probably would have died if i had. and i wouldn’t have lived with that. when i woke up about a week later, in the hospital, my first question was the most obvious, my next question was whether or not i had killed her in the wreck. after being answered i went back out for awhile. for the next couple months my thing was pain pills and i got over it pretty quick. after all i’m a faster, harder kind of guy, not a low n slow slob. i was out of the hospital about four days before i snorted some coke. i pretty much just jumped right back into the party. i got out of the hospital in july, by october, i was back in the hospital because i couldn’t breathe. after being admitted i was sent to c.i.c.u. a little while later a cardio-thoracic surgeon came and said “you do cocaine, huh?” after replying in the affirmative he responded with, “if you do cocaine again, you’ll die. you’ll be going into surgery tomorrow. surgery on your heart. see ya then.” and he walked out. dr. richard mather. pronounced motter. i’ll never forget that asshole’s name. because i never did cocaine again. sold it, never did it again. i got busted in january of ninety-nine with a pretty good amount of coke on me. i bonded out, hid out at the house for a few days, got bored and went back to my spot. i was messing around with this chick and her house was my spot, it was her birthday so we went to partying. it was a good time until a misunderstanding turned into a murder. the misunderstanding was this asshole thought he was ten feet tall, bulletproof, and could do what he wanted. i proved him fatally wrong. i was arrested, booked, and bonded out within three days. fuck em if they can’t take a joke. they offered me forty five years. i told them to go fuck themselves. i took it to trial and was found not guilty due to reasons of self-defense and defense of a third party. i fucking got away with murder. my exact words were, “if you let him in, i’m going to kill him. listen to me now, terry.” she opened the door. i killed him.

a history of addiction

so. i’m back. a bit about me. i’m a shooter. which means i like my drugs water soluble and administered by intraveinous injection. been that way for years, a little over ten, almost eleven years. for the lay person, i shoot dope. don’t misunderstand me here. i am not a dirty, scuzzed out fucking junkie. i’m almost obsessive compulsive about using new needles every time, alcohol swabbing the injection site, properly disposing of used points(dirty needles.) there’s no fukn excuse for using the same needle over n over n over, until it’s as sharp as a goddamn sixteen penny framing nail. a new package of ten needles costs under three dollars, just under five dollars at most. a box of ONE HUNDRED needles costs just shy of twenty eight dollars. no muthafukn excuse, other than pure slovenliness. just pure dirtiness. and ya can’t fukn sell me that unavailability bullshit. i goddamn well know better. mom n pop drugstores, a certain, very large grocery and household items store chain, a particular drugstore franchise will not bat an eye nor ask any question, except: “Long needle or short needle?” “long, please and thank you.” if you’ve been bangin for any length of time and have looked at enough ten packs, you know exactly what to say, using proper terminology. “i need a package (or case) of one see see, twenty nine or thirty gauge syringes, half inch in length. please.” throw your three bucks on the counter and out the door ya go. with ten brand new stickers. points. orange party hats. (that one is my favorite.) these pieces of cowardly shit that are brave enough to poke themselves, but not brave enough to buy points themselves? you’re a fucking dilletante. an amateur. a pussy.
moving right along, fuck me, what was i going to say next. oh, track marks. i’m guilty of this. there really is no excuse for those either. there is a large vein that runs up the top of the bicep and then disappears into the deltoid muscle. there are MULTIPLE veins that crawl over the tops of the feet and wind their way up the calves. there are veins just under the skin near the hip bones. additionally, tattoos are relatively cheap these days. pick something cute, get it put over your preferred sweet spot. christ, it’s not that fucking hard. it’s simple camoglouge.
anyway, that was, i suppose, one of my tangents. i meant to explain where i started. how i started and why. maybe next time.