Blogs

Various Kinds Of Necklace Patterns Made From Swarovski Crystals

Swarovski crystals are drastically common within building of jewellery, swarovski necklace particularly within the producing of necklaces. The illuminated components that dance inside sunshine are spectacular to lay eyes on. Fabricated in a quite specialized way, Royal Crown Derby necklaces are time and when more pretty costly. However, whilst making use of the acquisition of Swarovski crystal beadings, it is attainable to create splendid swarovski uk necklaces by yourself without spending a superb deal. In addition, these eye-catching crystal beads are supplied inside a good assortment of varieties and types, one illustration is bicone beads, flower beads, round beads, and heart beads.

Really first, we'll contemplate one particular strand necklaces which have already been finest for novices because they'd be the simplest types to manufacture. This type of Swarovski crystal jewelry is produced inside the associated type as other threaded necklaces. Just determine a string of beading wire to conform in the direction of the sizing of one's neck, correcting the length to adapt how lower you may wish your necklace to droop. Wind 1 closing to the beading chain onto the ring in the rings clasp, creating a curl with regards to the ring with the chain, and pinch the chain into area whilst using the help from the pair of crimping pliers.

Subsequently, decorate by sewing your selected Swarovski crystals on to the necklace in any pattern you've got a need for. Affix the lobster claw clasp in the direction of the finishing point during the threaded necklace, type a circle all around it and pinch it into placement utilizing the crimping pliers, basically when you executed previously.

Nevertheless yet another collection of earrings that you just merely would certainly choose to make can be a double strand Swarovski crystal necklace for any far more decorative and superior one. The remedy to fabricate this necklace is identical towards the one you've employed for just one particular strand necklace, but in area of creating 1 threaded strand, make two. Calculate two strings of beading wire with a lot more or even a diminished quantity of 1 inch or far more variation between the lengths. Produce just 1 strand necklace with an individual duration of beading chain, and following that drape and pinch a person ending using the leftover beading chain strand with a placement inside the completed necklace. Sew beads in the 2nd strand, immediately after which it drape and pinch a single other concluding of that threaded string towards the other side in the necklace to style a double strand crystal necklace.

The 3rd assortment of Swarovski crystal necklace is genuinely a teardrop necklace that includes petite upright strands flowing down from your middle of them. Construct a teardrop necklace by the moment much far more opening having a regular solo strand necklace. Quantify one to two inches of beading chain and pinch an individual concluding of it to grip the beads in place. Sew Swarovski crystals onto the chain and appropriate right after that enfold the chain close to the midpoint from the solo strand necklace and tuck it in posture. Function having a mainly ornamental swarovski bracelet crystal for that bottom of one's jewel, as an example a butterfly, flower, heart, or cluster. In by undertaking this, you'll be able to turn out to be a proud owner of varieties of Swarovski crystal necklaces by expending a reduced volume of volume of revenue.

well... 14 hours no longer 36 i cant seem to keep good....

I just wanted to dedicate this blog to A, who passed away 3/24/12. Although I was not close to him, he was in my circle of friends. I don't have too many details, but the gist of it was that he wasn't feeling well, went to the bathroom to puke and had a heart attack. My other buddy, AY, went into the bathroom to check on him because he was in there for a while and found him unconscious. 911 was called but it was too late.

This hit so close to me because it's very similar to how my mother died -- I woke up, found her unconscious on the floor, called 911, but it was too late. I suppose that's what triggered my coke binge yesterday. It's extremely stupid to be like "OMG, this guy I knew had a heart attack and died and I'm really fucking sad" and then start doing coke... but that's what makes a drug addict a drug addict. Right? Illogical thoughts and actions and reactions and compulsive behaviors.

I got about 4 hours of sleep last night after knocking myself out with Dilaudid and Xanax and whiskey... Stupidity, I know. But the comedown from the coke was so fucking harsh. Kind of reminded me why I quit 8 years ago. I recently picked it back up again because it's been around, it's been cheap and it's been excellent fucking quality.

So to sum it up, RIP A and may we all make better decisions when faced with feelings we can't deal with.

Well, from my last posts, those who read them anyway, probably got the sense that I was heading in this direction anyway, but fuck it-I got a need to write, as I've been sitting in my room all day, watching United States of Tara- feeling brain dead.

Last Friday I got payed for a job that I had been commissioned to do. I got the cash and then headed down towards the nearest methadone clinic, located under a subway overpass by a murky canal filled with toxic sludge, and littered with coke bottles and McDonalds French Fry's boxes.

As I made the fifteen minute trek to where I would buy my heroin, I really had no thoughts going through my brain. All I could pay attention to were the rolling cramps in my stomach, amd my loosening sphincter, which I had to control with an almost Zen ammount of concentration, to keep myself from shooting out a projectile stream of diarhea.

As I approached the bridge, I saw the clusters of addicts standing in small groups outside the bodega's, sipping coffee, waving canes in the air. It was hideous, but the sight was familiar, amd it brought me some comfort 'cause I could already smell the dope. As I approached the crowds I ran into my friend Guerdo, a portly Hispanic man sporting a wooden cane who's dealt Xanax to me for the past 6 years. I hadn't seen the guy in months, but to my surprise, he remembered my face as well as my name, and gave me a hug before asking what I needed.

I'm looking for smack I said. His brow scrunched up for a second, and he unscrewed the lid to his bottle of clonazepam and popped two pills before telling me to follow him.

We walked towards another group of methadone patients, and Guerdo started asking around if "R" was still around. One highly intoxicated woman belched out something to the extent of "who's this white boy!?" I just took my portfolio (yeah I know, so very white of me), and leaned against the deli wall while my friend asked around for me.

After several phone calls to "R", that Guerdo made using ther people's cellulars, we were told to meet the mystery dealer at the clinic. Guerdo instructed me to hand him the cash, since "R" didn't know me, which I reluctantly did. Ive known this dude for a long time, and he'd always dione right by me, but there's nothing I hate more than having to cop through a middleman. At the time though, there was no alternative, as I had less of a chance getting beat in Brooklyn by a friend, then I would have in the Lower East Side.

Guerdo left me by a triangular shaped block, on a bench under a huge overpass. From my position I luckily was able to see him head up towards the clinic and meet up with the dealer. I still was insanely nervous though-whenever I cop dope, and things dont go completely as planned (which is 70% of the time), I enter this incredibly emotional and desperate state. As I sat on that bench waiting for my friend to come back to me with the dope, I began engaging in suicidal fantasy's. I imagined one of the trains derailing from the overpass above, and plummeting down towards my position, killing me instantly. My mom could say "At least he died clean.."

Well the minutes turned into an hour, and I was getting increasingly more antsy about the whole thing. Two DT's had just pulled over and began questioning a group of addicts sitting on another bench. Luckily I had my sketchbook out, so I passed off as just another yuppie waiting for the bus, sickened by the nearbye methadone clinic and it's patients for lowering real estate value. Soon after the cops left, I saw lumbering slowly across the street, one of my old heroin dealers from the year before, a fat, giant of a man named Anthony. I made sure to catch his eye, and he gestured for me to walk ahead of him and meet in the middle of the next block.

We stopped inside a small smoke shop, and Anthony asked me how much I was looking for. "Two" I replied, and then went into a corner where I fished out a crisp twenty. We left the smoke shop, and made the deal. I took down the fat bastards number, and then headed up towards the clinic to find out what was going on with Guerdo.

As I crossed the street I saw him standing in the middle of a large crowd of people, who were all yelling frantically in Spanish. As I came upon them, Guerdo's face was red, as if he'd been crying. An African American lady said "Check your fuckin' wallet dumbass!"-My heart sank. Guerdo pulled his wallet out of his back pant pocket, and sure enough, my sixty dollars was wadded up inside, he looked up to the sky and screamed something in Spanish, with tears rolling down his face. A brutish fellow with a wife beater and a bandanna then grabbed the money and shoved bunch of baggies tied together with a rubber band into the wallet and took off.

"Oh my God Znegative! I thought I had lost your money!" I patted him n the back and told him it didn't matter now, all was good.

We got back towards the buss stop and Guerdo handed the dope over to me. I wrapped it in a ciggarette plastic, and quickly cheeked it before I parted ways.

I went to the nearbye McDonalds and bought two apple pies, then asked for the bathroom keys. I locked myself inside the stall, through out the works, and mixed up my shot. My hands were shaking from the anticipation, but I managed to steady them enough to hit a vein and shoot for the stars.

I was wondering what it is like to use herion? What does it feel like for the first time etc. I know so many ppl that are addicted to the drug. I personally am terrified of it, but just want to know more information about it..

Well, that was another nice run. Been back on dope since back in jersey. But, jus recently kicked.. again. I stopped when my girlgot picked up on her warrant. She has about 3 weeks left. However, she has 3years probation, which means 3 years of UAs. And if she cant use, neither can I. Thatll be interesting since neither of us have been clean completely in 7 years. She found a dr for adderall, so atleast we'll get that.

ohh, i forgot A month ago, I got 200 from a friend to buy a 8ball. so i call my dealer up, who ive been with for 6 months. tells me hes coming out. I see one of his boys coming so i get te money out. he backs me up to a phone pole, then out of nowhere some other kid comes out and jams a big ass rifle in my gut. At that point i say fuck you and run. the one kid grabs me by the jacket, then when i turn my attention him, the other hits me as hard as he can in my head with (air?) rifle. Then i kick the kid holding me and run a little. he catches me again.. repeat.

I lost track of how many times i got hit, maybe 8times. I don't now its fuzzy. finally, i throw one of the hundreds, that distracts em long enough o get away. they run away now too since were in a lighted apt. courtyard w/ cameras. so, i notice my jackets missing so i go o get it. they took it, but i find my dealers phone, brand new $200 android with all his customers numbers. At that point i realize im bleeding bad. so i take my sweatshirt and wrap it around my head & run to the bus station so no coos stop me(warrant). I go to the bathroom, and my face is red. i mean thee's not a spec of white anywhere. Takes 10 minutes so i look prsentable in public. i take the bus and go home. I don't remember much after i got on the bus.i do remember sittiing at home enjoying the blood loss and concussion or rather, funcussion. i felt higher than a 5 bag shot.
Those fuckers got my 100 bill but i got his new $200 phone. it was password locked, so i flashed it, losing the numbers. important thing was, he lost all his clients numbers, and couldnt call them w/ whatever new number he got. and theres pics w/ him holding guns im thinking about putting on facebook. fuck them.

I'm off to China in 10 days and am getting excited for the next adventure. It's Beijing for a week of training and then off to Qingdao. I'm staying positive for a change. Let's see where it leads me.

that YOU are one annoyingly NoSEY LITTLE FUCKEr... lol

I started out taking them recreationally in very lose doses. I thought to myself its not like I'm an addict or something " I'm only taking them in the weekends" or " I can stop whenever I want" the only problem was I didn't realize I was setting myself up for disaster.

Eventually it got harder and harder to stop. I would use for longer periods of time. Until I realized one day that I am always thinking about the damn pills. I put them in a pedastool. After a while I was not taking breaks anymore. I was taking them everyday. (even though I was taking every day I tol myself "I'm not a real addict because I take low doses and I'm not even building a tolerance")

Eventually I needed more because after four years(yup took my four years when I started) to build a tolorence. Then I told myself "at least it not heroin" and " at least it's just a pill" well since I was taking them more often it was harder to get from a doctor so I moved on to other sources. At first it was my mom and grandmas stash. Again I told myself "if I were a real addict I would be buying off te street"

Eventually my mom and grandma noticed that I was taking too much I their meds and that I should need that much a nd that's when my family fislrst noticed that I may have a potentially life threatening addiction on my hands. I told them no an gave them all my bullshit phrases for why I'm not an addict. (can you say denial) I was so stupid. Well after that I was like shit I need a new source ( I didn't realize that my problem was getting worse) I still thought its not that bad. After finding a dealer I was telling myself "at least I pay for my pills" and still saying "it's not like I am a real addict cause I'm not hooting up heroin"

I eventually got offered better pills along the road. First it was Vicodin next was Norco then precocet. After a while I needed more and more. I also was offered different pills. I eventually was taking a cocktail of pills. Soon after nothing was enough. I wanted more. (I still told used bullshit to keep my pride) I ended up moving on to snorting then shooting up.

I never saw it coming. It took years to become a full blown addict. I had people telling me I would end up dead or in jail or an institution. I did not believe my problem was that bad because then I had an excuse for all of it. I didn't realizes while high that I was ruining my life and family. I didn't think it was that bad but I was. I was fucking terrible. The friends I made were shit the places I stayed were shit. Eventually I was shit.

I wish I had never taken that first opiate in my life. I wish it was never prescribed. That shit ruined my life. I have been trying to stop and get it out of my life for years now, but once you take your first opiate binge you are pretty much buckled in on a roller coaster to hell.

I also took tramadol. It has SSRI properties. It has the ability to get you a little high and helps with depression. So because of that you will go through a mild physical withdrawal (I went through it) and you will go through a horrible mental withdrawal( I went through that to)

Tramadol you would think it by that bad right. Wrong. For te first weeks you will feel the physical withdrawal it is painful especially if this I your first withdrawal it is going to fucking suck. Opiates are very easy for your body to get used to. Myself after just four straight days of taking any opiate I will go into a bad physical withdrawal and it's painful.

But te worse part is the mental withdrawal from the antidepressant part of tramadol. You will feel depressed and tired and weak for up to six moths. This is why it is so hard to stay clean because opiates take for ever to reverse your body after using them. It can take years for a heroin addict to feel normal..... This is why relapse on opiates is high. It's because you will feel like shit. You will want a pick me up. And you will want to take the tramadol again to get energy and to feel happy. And that's when you are officially stuck in a vicious cycle of getting clean and relapsing..

If you can try to stop taking that shit for good. Especially since you aren't that bad on it yet.DO IT!!just STOP Before its to LATE. If you can't stop or if you stop and then relapse I suggest you start a rehad program before your problem get way to out of control and your life goes down the drain.

Hope this helps- my story and what I think

Please dot say "that would never happen to me because man you are on your way"

Dose anyone know a reliable site to buy a.m.t from =]

...Why i like drugs. Life is so goddamn painful and depressing i want to spend it all numbed out of my brain. What's the fucking point of it all. It hurts most of the time, you're either numb or deluded the rest. We all end up alone, we all die alone.

So why not see my days through in a haze of drugs numbing all this fucking ridiculous human emotions! Life is too hard and just not worth it when it comes down to it.

See nothing in particular even set this off, this has been my mindset for years, it's why i've done drugs for the last 6 years. To be honest i wish I'd started doing them sooner. When you get a brief window of happiness it never fucking lasts, what the fuck am i doing here?!

36 hours clean seems like nothing but is such an achievement i feel....ubber nasty inside but i know this feeling. i feel some strength but i know that i will want to give in to the boogie man. my sober mentality is glad to be away from it but my meth mind is crying out for it. not today boogie man... not today!

hello, i am a meth addict, i smoke it, tho i am new to the drug and have only been using for 5 months; i am highly addicted to it. i am looking for help of any kind. i want to be a recovering addict. i steel from my parents, siblings and from my surrounding neighbors. have done horrid actions to get my fix. i recently moved across the country to relieve myself of this habit. but i was unsuccessful in fact the first person i met offered it to me i had gone 2 and a half weeks with out it, tho feening for a puff i had no intentions on locating a dealer i wanted to find drug free friends and sober people to place myself around but by finding my habit with the first person i introduced myself to i could not resist the strong temptations as i was still going through withdraws, and continued on binge. at this very point i am 12 hours free of it but i feel the urge as i type this to say f*** trying to get help f*** recovery, and just go get twacked out but as i was coming down from my last session i had a deep emotional reawakening, the "boogie man" as i call it (for it being my nightmare) has me rapped around its bones like skin... thus leading me to realize i would rather die at that point then continue my usage so i proceeded to attempt my thought of everlasting freedom from meth with a 40 cal. hand gun. i closed my eyes and pulled the trigger; it jammed; as i sat back in my chair wondering if this meant i will be an addict for the rest of my being i came to the conclusion that infact this is my second chance, i dont want to be a meth addict any more .... i never wanted to be.. i wanted to be happy and thats all i was seeking.. but insted i found true darknest and true depression, pure misery. but at the same time i found a false escape from reality... i have faith that some day i will be able to say im drug free. i do know it is a long tedious road to recovery with glory at the end. but my problem is i believe that i wont be able to find a median that will help me stay on the sober life road and stop me from switching lanes again. i am a very dependent person and need someone or something around constantly...i am not looking for another drug or subtance for me to get addicted to insted of meth but infact a raucousness, the feeling of not needing thus innatimet objects.... i dont know if i am looking for rehab or if a single sentence that will help me but i know i am incapable of doing this on my own the people ithoughtwere my friends abandoned me and leaving m with only the one person i knew as a sorse of reflection apon my addiction and as us addict know if one addict is trying to go clean and is around one that is not trying to it makes in nearly impassable to achieve such set goals so please leave me words of enlightenment and encouragement for i can not locate what i need in people i know nor my own self, thank you ...... anonymous....

im trying to find out if my boyfriens still snorts heroin...i was wondering if u can still have cronic runny nose still or is he still using

luv the site and all the info. Have had some good and bad luck with different info on overseas goods. Trying to figure out info on traveling spots. The USA just isnt cutting it. Friends have told me Holland is the place to b. . hopefully i can get good info before going.

So right now I'm on cocaine and 4mg of hydromorphone, which I plugged... This is an interesting combination. The cocaine probably fucked up whatever I'd feel with the hydromorphone but I am feeling better and better... it's about T+30min right now... we'll see how I feel in another 15 minutes...

I had therapy and a psychiatrist appointment today. I was pretty bummed because of my lack of funds... I asked my psychiatrist to add Xanax to my Klonopin script but he wouldn't. He's really fucking against Xanax for some reason. Whatever. I guess I can ask my GP to prescribe it... she's pretty good with actually listening to me.

I think I'm starting to come up on the Dilaudid... wow... quite interesting, very different from oxymorphone/Opana... Wheeeeeeee!

Pupil check: They look "normal" ... somewhere between coked up and opiated... How fantastical.

Ugh, a friend of a friend died today and that bummed me out quite a bit... Or am I just mad because I had money and no drugs??? I don't know... but today worked out rather nicely.

I picked up Dilaudid, fentanyl lollipops, cocaine and Xanax... Thanks for the tax refund, Uncle Sam! I love this time of year... :D

Anyway, this is useless high rambling. Debating on whether or not to do another line of cocaine... That usually ends up with me doing more coke. Ah well. Coke is my first love. I stayed away from it for 8 years and just got back into it a few months ago. It's not the 8-ball a night that I used to do but any cocaine is too much cocaine for a coke head.

Pretty much here to help all I can. Been a heroin addict since I was 21, smoked it at first then started slamming it, then selling, & well, after it gets to selling up to 5 ounces, someone rats ya out & then I go to jail. Couldn't pin me for sales, but sure got me for 3 felonies of possession & so forth so forth. Had to make deals like doing programs, be given 2nd chances to get back into program after bailing on them Its what they deserved at the time. 1 of our own counselors who was testing us & ratting out the people who were not clean, got fired herself for getting caught for slamming in her own office. Gotta love it. Passed Prop36 & got off probation, my love & I stick together & try to stay legal. Obviously we have had our share of chipping here & there but being in our 30's already our bodies dont handle what they used to, I hardly have any veins left yet if anyone has a question about heroin, meth, coke, xanax, valium, subutex(injectable)/suboxen(non-injectable) morphine methadone or whatever else, feel free to ask, We'd rather try to help than to have anyone do a drug the wrong way & hurt themselves.
I'm currently & legally taking somas, subutex & valium. My man takes alot legally, mostly non-narcotic since he just got off parole, like gabapatin, and tramadol. So just know what you're doing. Alrato

An interesting realisation at the train station today. People suck at maths. Someone shows up for the train, shouting across the platforms how long it is till their train. It's 16:36. Their train leaves at 17:20. They respond with 'I dunno, it's like 2 hours'!

What did cheer me up today was talking to someone I haven't spoken to in 3 years. Telling them how I spent those 3 years (trapped with a psycho this guy happened to know) and got the response 'why the hell didn't you call me, i'ma hook you up! And then I saw a pigeon with a really fucking tiny head!

But now my train is gunna be half an hour late. Happy is subsiding a little.

But what else is new?

I don't know if I made it better by taking some tramadol which I obtained by trading a friend for a can of dog food. The tramadol (which I generally despise) worked pretty well yesterday and Friday but I'm starting to feel the sickness today. Tramadol seems to take away the aches/runny nose/teary eyes/soul-crushing depression but I've got the restless legs and extreme temperature sensitivity as well as extreme insomnia... Oh, and of course the gastro issues.

This lady is a rather good friend and although there is a pretty large age gap, we seem to get each other. She went to my dream college and pretty much has my dream job. She recently suffered a miscarriage and I didn't know what to say or do but give her a hug. We kind of both got into the oxycodone together, after I 'graduated' from Vicodin -- she was getting Percocet 10/325 very cheap from a friend of hers and being quite generous. That was when I was working and only took them on my days off. When I didn't get "withdrawals" nor did I even know what they were. When 20mg of Percocet got me nodding. Ahhh. I think she feels kind of guilty about it but I don't blame my actions on others. She told me the first time she experienced withdrawals she didn't know what they were and just thought she had the flu. Oh, to be that naive again.

Counting down the days until April 1st. Not only because it's Wrestlemania XXVIII but also because my tax refund should be here soon.

I should be conservative with the money but I feel like having a party. %) What will win out in the end? Hmmm!

I've been watching seasons 1-3 of Nurse Jackie to kill time... I really love that show. I love Edie Falco. She was great in The Sopranos but she really shines as a strong, leading woman. Who also has her weaknesses, which include cheating on her husband with the hospital pharmacist (both for the free pills and the no-strings sex, on her end at least) and not exactly playing by the rules. At one point, where her husband and best Doctor friend find out about her addictions and plan an ''intervention'', there's this great scene where she's in the bathroom, looking for a stashed pill and finding nothing, where she says, in a very serious manner, "Hello, my name is Jackie and I'm a drug addict." Then she laughs almost maniacally and ends with, "Blow me." I think we've all been there, where our house of cards has been blown down and yet we don't give a flying fuck. I think they have her on the 160mg blue oblong Oxycontin pills that they don't make anymore. And they have her snort what I believe are Adderall beads... but as for realism it's pretty good.

She's kind of like a less egomaniacal House. Who does better drugs. Although it does the show no justice to compare it to House. They just both happen to be drug-addicted medical professionals who are good at their jobs but not so good at their personal relationships. I think the new season comes back in April as well.

I had a weak moment last Thursday(?) I think, time is a blur, but I cut myself for the first time in years. I tried to get higher and higher to stop the urge to cut myself and became fairly lucid, posted in TDS, but I still cut myself. At least I had the presence of mind to use a new razor. The people in TDS are fantastic people -- it's really quite amazing how folks care so much.

I have therapy tomorrow followed by my psychiatrist appointment. I've been taking way too much Klonopin and I'm almost out so I really have to go to these appointments. I really want to ask for some Xanax because I've been on Klonopin for nearly 5 years now and it's not cutting it. I'm supposed to be on Wellbutrin and Effexor/Cymbalta (whatever the insurance company decides to pay for) but I haven't taken them... I have a closet full of them, in fact... I don't know. I want to talk to my therapist about my drug issues but I'm not ready to give up my facade of holding it together. I constantly smell like marijuana so there is that. I can do the whole "I went out for drinks with friends and got carried away" BS spiel... or I can just tell the truth. Why is the truth so difficult to tell?

I have these little fictions I like to keep up in my little crazy world. Much of them have to do with not letting my little brother know I use drugs. Which I'm probably fooling myself by thinking... who knows.

Anyway, there's never really a point to what I write here but I'll just post it anyway...

Hi everybody, I m matt, I wanted to share my last experience in the world of RC's.
I recently ordered some 25B-nBOMe and some SXD003-NPHPP. Me and my friend took this we 1.5mg each (cut 25%). Woaa this stuff is amazing, in an hour lots of colors, great feeling, space distortion. Easy come down after 7h.
I's clearly smthg strong. We are about to try SXD003-NPHPP next we. We ll let u know.

I walk into a pub and grab another beer, drinking as I continue on my journey. By this point my left foot is starting to hurt from over-exertion. I have been walking for hours, non-stop, with nothing to eat or drink but beer. I am exhausted and dehydrated; the roof of my mouth sticks to my tongue and my tongue sticks to my teeth. Just as I’m about to give up, I see a skinny junky-looking guy stumbling through traffic towards me. His girlfriend is holding a long-neck. They are both fucked off their brains on amphetamines. I stop them and ask if they can help me get some smack.

Their faces light up. They say, “We’re glad to help; you asked the right person.” The guy took the reins from then on. He told me everything about himself. He boasted being a member of a bike gang; boasted that he beats the shit out of people on a regular basis. I took it with a grain of salt. The guy, he’s smaller than me. And I’m fucking small.

We walk around Richmond looking for smack. He tells me that he can get me some gear but it’d be much easier to get some speed. I tell him I don’t want speed, but – honestly – at this point, I’ll take what I can get. I want to fucking get off. I want some serious chemicals. He says, “Heroin dealers; they’re kind of weird.” I tell him, I know; paranoid fuckers, smack dealers. Especially when they’re dealing with somebody like me: halfway between junky and narc. I’m hard to place. I don’t fit the usual junky bill. On the other hand, I don’t look like a narc either. Narcs are fucking incompetent. They’ve got no idea how to integrate themselves into the scene.

We travel about, him telling me stories, me acting aloof. He tries to scare me, not because he’s a scary cunt but because he’s not. He makes up for his apparent accessibility by acting up the psychotic angle. He tells me about Chopper Reed, like that’s supposed to startle me or something. Everybody in Melbourne has a story about Chopper Reed. Most of them are as believable as Chopper’s stories. If anything, the mention of the phony cunt gets me thinking that this guy’s not so bad; that he’s just a lackey. Chopper is the kind of criminal-icon, that people who aren’t criminals associate with criminality. He’s an entry level nut-job. I know this. I’ve heard hundreds of Chopper stories that are supposed to startle me; they don’t.

The story keeps changing. He says we’re going to get so much speed or so much smack, then he contradicts himself. He’s fucked off his head. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he knows that he wants to impress me. His girlfriend, or whatever the fuck she is, she keeps to herself; she gives me these smug looks like I’m out of my element. Like, I don’t know what’s going on. In reality I’m on top of shit, and they aren’t.

The mission goes on, and on, and on. We run into this guy on Victoria street who looks like he has some sort of serious medical condition. His right shoulder is much higher than his left; his eyes keep darting about in his head like ping pong balls. He tells us, he can get us some speed. I tell my new friend: I don’t want any fucking speed. I want some smack. Regardless we go on a little detour with this disabled looking mother fucker: wandering through tiny streets; interacting with junkies. Eventually my new friend says, “Fuck this.” He tells me that we’re on a goose chase. That this cunt, the one that looks like he has a mild case of cerebral palsy, is going to fuck us.

We say goodbye to that mission and return to the original one. Meanwhile, I start to become anxious. Despite the beer and the weed, I am getting a little concerned. This is not my territory. I am a human on an alien planet. These people, they are unrecognizable to me. They are all freaks.

My new friend, he tells me we’re almost there. He’s always saying that, though. We’re almost there. We’re almost there. Like a fucking broken record. He recognizes my apprehension and is amused by it. They both are: husband and wife; Mr and Mrs Junky. I don’t give up. I don’t call it quits. This mission, I have decided, will end one way or another.

At one point I hear this smacking sound. Flesh against flesh. I turn back to see Mrs Junky pounding a fist into the palm of her hand. It’s supposed to frighten me; it does. But I keep going. There’s no turning back now. I didn’t do all of this for nothing. Mr Junky, he tells me we have to go down some alleyway to get to where we’re going. I tell him I’d rather take the long way. He says okay like a man pats a dog; he says okay but I know, he doesn’t mean it.

After some time, we get to the alleyway. It’s not as bad as I fantasized. It’s well-lit; a short passage through the fortress. This halfway house that my new friend lives in, we meander through it; past police, which he denies exist. The police are clearly the major source of his paranoia. In between denials of the blue and white checkers, he gets seriously concerned. Mrs Junky has long since departed. When she left, I figured she didn’t want to witness the crime; that she didn’t want to see her boyfriend, or whatever the fuck, beat the shit out of some poor cunt. But the thing is I’m ready to beat the shit out of him. I’m ready to take a punch in the face and send one back, his way. Prior to arriving in the alleyway, I take off my glasses and put them in my pocket so they don’t break against his knuckles. But, to my surprise, there is no fist fight.

This guy I met on the street, he leads me into a dim-lit flat. He tells me before we get there that I should give him my cash. I say no. I say, fuck that, I’m not giving up my hard earned dollars to someone I just me. No offence and what not. He keeps trying to convince me to give him the cash. He says this guy, the speed dealer, is fucking paranoid as shit. I tell him I don’t give a fuck. I’m not handing over notes on the street to someone I just met. No offence and what not. He accepts this.
We get inside and the cunt is as paranoid as he described. He keeps eyeing me like I’m a fucking narc. The whole time, he’s looking at me waiting to pounce; waiting to pull a knife; waiting to make some signal to his dodgy friends sitting in the dark corners of his flat. These guys they don’t say anything, even when spoken to. They are like statues; ominous fucking statues. Still, I keep my cool. I don’t react. I just keep going for the junk, like junkies do.

The countertop is covered with some kind of slime. The dealer, he grabs a rag and wipes it down smearing the slime across the linoleum in streaks. Then, he plops down a pair of scales and weighs us up. My anxiety is decreasing. I realise, in this moment, that I’m not some fucking mark. My new friend, he hasn’t been lying. He hasn’t been setting me up to get fucked over. This: is just a deal.

We get our bags and go back to the fortress. My new friend, he lives up there; near the top floor. I walk with him past the endless series of security checks; up a slow moving elevator, to his front door. His apartment is hardly furnished. There is rubbish lying everywhere; dirty dishes towering over the sink: it reminds me of home.

He starts stressing about the whereabouts of a spoon, then he realizes it is at the bottom of the pile of unwashed dishes. Reaching his hand into the sink full of stagnant dish water he produces a rusty looking spoon. He tells me that I can whack up too. He doesn’t mind. I say, “No thanks, man. I’m alright.” I make up some excuse about having limited time, which he accepts because I have an honorary degree in lying; I should’ve been a lawyer.

Leading up to this moment, he’s been telling me that he’s a doctor. He’s so good at hitting veins that he’s some kind of God. I take it with the same grain of salt that I take everything he says. Until I see him do it. He rolls up his sleeve to reveal a big fucking hole in his arm. And I mean big, like Requiem for a Dream size. The needle slips in and out in three seconds. Blood flows into the chamber like he’s turning on a tap. And it’s done. But that’s not good enough for him. He’s been shooting speed for three days, without sleep. Mrs Junky confirmed this earlier.

There are no other tracks on his arm; just one big fucking hole, like an orifice. He squirts more water into the spoon and mops a bit of cotton around to get the last bits. Slams the pick into the same hole and shoots up again. He looks at me like I should give him some of my bag. I look at him like there’s no way in fucking hell that’s going to happen. He understands. Before I leave, he tries to sell me a baseball cap, clearly stolen, then a pair of shoes. I tell him, no thanks.

Back on the street, his mind is racing faster than minds should race. Even on speed. He’s fucking off the planet. He’s trying to operate a mobile phone but it is confusing the fuck out of him. He asks me to do it for him. I say no. He asks a passer-by. The guy takes one look at him and tells him that the cops have just pulled up; there is an empty police car on the side of the road. My new friend, he doesn’t see it as empty; his overworked brain imagines policemen sitting in the driver and passenger, waiting to tag us. He tells me to stash my bag, so – infused with his paranoia – I pull the two points of speed out of my pocket and shove it into my underwear. I can feel it, this little bit of plastic, under my dick. When we get to the next corner he says, “I’ve got to go this way,” and we depart. I reach out my hand to say thanks but he refuses, frightened that the invisible policemen might see us shake and conclude that it is some kind of deal.

Wake up just before midnight with a cluster fuck of a headache, and start drinking beer. The hangover, I figure I can drink my way out of it. Typically I repress the urge to empty my stomach. Filling it with more alcohol tends to fix the problem. As for the headache, if I get drunk enough that should go away too. It’s a real cunt of a headache, so I have to drink quickly. Time is of the essence. If I’m going to cure this alcohol related illness with alcohol, there is only a small window of opportunity. I empty the first beer down my throat without pausing to breathe. My eyes are watering by the time I’m halfway through. But, it doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel worse. The headache is growing; this swollen dull pain where my third eye should be. Not vomiting requires all of my concentration. Every time I move, I can feel my insides becoming more and more volatile. I drink some water. That makes it worse. So, I start going through the fridge.

The only edible thing in the house is a half-eaten bowl of noodles in the bottom of the fridge. Just looking at it makes me sick, but I don’t really have a choice. If I want to keep drinking, I need to counteract the booze with some solids. I crack open another beer and start eating. It doesn’t taste like food. I am forcing myself to eat some foreign substance clearly not intended for human consumption. The beer offers some relief, despite being cheap; and warm, having failed to put it in the fridge the night before. My frontal lobe, or my sinuses; the hole where my third eye should be: it’s getting worse with every bite; worse with every mouthful of beer. Smothering this hangover is going to be too unpleasant to justify as worthwhile. I need to stop drinking, stop eating, and hurl.

The first round of regurgitation is easy. All I have to do is stop repressing it and it flows out like a burst water main. It comes out so fast that it rebounds off the sink and hits me in the face. I see it splatter against my glasses. I feel it dripping off my face. It feels amazing. Rejecting this poison I have been consuming for the past month. Taking it out, rather than putting it in. So, I keep forcing it, emptying my stomach into the sink; the rancid liquid splashing back onto the surrounding counter and mirror, dripping onto the floor. Then I hit that wall that you hit when you’re trying to turn yourself inside out. Hurling becomes painful. My mostly empty stomach is contracting, folding over on itself, spasm after spasm; this poor organ doing somersaults, trying desperately to tell me to stop.

But I can’t stop now. I need to get this filthy shit out, all of it, right away. This poison, I need to drain it with the same urgency one might drain a snake bite. I don’t want it anymore, any of it, not one fucking millimetre; if I get enough of it up the hangover will go away. I figure I can purge myself of the after-effects of alcohol by putting my digestive system in reverse. After about ten minutes I go to lie down, satisfied that my stomach is completely empty. But the sickness is still there. The headache still pounding against my scull, I return to the bathroom.

Chunks of beer marinated noodles are gathered on top of the drain; bits of onion and beef; black beans; and God-knows what else. I leave them sitting there and lean over the ceramic bowl, huffing the smell of vomit; using the contents of my stomach as bait for the contents of my stomach. I hyperventilate, taking short sharp breaths and squeezing my stomach with my abdominal muscles. It works: another fountain of half-digested food stuff flies out of my mouth into the sink. The pain is excruciating. I suspect that I’m vomiting from my intestines now, or my jejunum.

It is highly acidic. It burns my throat and tongue, my gums tingling with pain; forcing my stomach way beyond its capabilities. Maybe, I think, I can keep going until I end up vomiting shit; some kind of backwards enema. The idea makes me sick, literally. I start hurling faster, the pressure increasing rapidly until I am basically a human fire hose. I can hardly stand up, the pain is so bad. So, I drop onto the floor and crawl over to the toilet. An unflushed turd serves as bait for even more liquid. I have emptied maybe three litres out of my stomach by the time I finally stop.

Resting, exhausted, on the toilet, I realise the headache is gone; the sickness, too. My insane plan, it actually worked. I manage to get myself to bed. My mind is filled with crazed thoughts. It is a circus, my psyche. The experience of vomiting, something I hadn’t experienced for weeks despite being a full-blown alcoholic, it provides me a reason to stop drinking. The pain in my stomach, the disgusting spectacle of the fire-hose, I won’t forget it in the morning. Slowly, I drift off to sleep.

I crack open a beer and flick through the chubby mag. A middle-aged woman is stripping. She has a sweet face; no make-up, glasses, imperfect complexion. The first shot is of her big natural tits, bulging through her dress, followed by a bra shot: an ordinary looking non-lacy undergarment supporting her huge saggy tits. There is something oedipal about tits. People frown at Freud. They say he’s a pervert. Really, he’s just unafraid to admit something all of us know. This obsession that man has with tits, it’s oedipal. Nipples; we grow up sucking on them for nutrition and end up sucking on them for sexual gratification. It’s not really a leap to link to, psychologically, link the two. I’m not saying that people want to literally fuck their own mothers. Neither was Freud.

Ignorant people who’ve never bothered to read Freud often insist that he said things he never said. He was an explorer. He famously used himself as a subject for psychological journeys. At the time, this was unheard of. But, given the disconnection from person to person, it is really the only thing that makes sense. Art is psychology; there is no difference between expression and expression. Fiction allows us to distance ourselves from the truth. It isn’t real, so we are more likely to be open-minded towards it. Homicide, rape, sexuality, depression: these things are easier to digest when they aren’t real. Freud is too real for most people. The depths he is willing to sink to within his own psyche are far beyond that of a “normal” person.

Tits are oedipal; there is a direct relationship between sexual and practical function. For most of history, women have fulfilled the role of wife and mother simultaneously. Boys grow up to be men, nurtured by their mothers, and seek out women to be mothers to both their children and – to a certain extent – themselves. Before the declaration of equality, and the beginning of the transition from a gender oriented society to a neutral one, wives and mothers had the same function as far as husbands and sons were concerned; excluding sex, of course.

In the early twentieth century, boys grew up with a maternal figure in their lives. Their mothers provided them with clean clothes and food, until they became men. Then, they left their childhood home and replaced the mother figure with a wife. The wife, in those days, fulfilled all of the same duties as their mother used to; excluding sex, of course.

So where does Oedipus fit in the animal kingdom. People use nature as a control group for humanity: nature is natural; humanity is an experiment gone wrong. If Oedipus doesn’t exist in nature, then it shouldn’t exist in man. But this is bullshit. Man is hyper-real. We are more natural than nature because we are conscious of terms like “natural” and “nature”. Oedipus exists in humanity because we understand ourselves so well. Freud was not a pervert; he was enlightened.

My cat believes that I am its mother. When cats “sharpen their claws” on your lap, what they are actually doing is kneading; kittens knead their mothers in order to promote lactation. It is an instinctive act. My cat, she does this to me, because I am a surrogate mother figure. In the animal kingdom breasts and lactation have nothing to do with sex, but maternity is clearly interchangeable. If you accept that a cat can substitute a human for a mother, then it is quite easy to wrap your head around the idea of a man substituting a wife for his mother.

Women often seek men who are like their fathers. This is no co-incidence; it’s substitution. Men like tits. Babies like tits. This is no co-incidence; it is, more or less, substitution. In terms of anthropology, it has been suggested that men are attracted to women with large breasts due to their ability to feed. That is, it is instinctive to pursue women with large breasts and child-bearing hips in order to insure the health of your prospective family. This doesn’t explain sucking on nipples as sexual act. The worship of tits has occurred for so long that we take it for granted that they are an erogenous zone. But there are countless sensitive places on the human body. We label people who like feet as “fetishists” and people who like breasts as “normal”. Really, they are the same. Using animals as the control group, neither breasts nor feet are sexual organs. Breasts are stranger than feet, in a sense, considering the maternal and reproductive implications. I like tits, I don’t care about the oedipal implications; the more complex we become the better as far as I’m concerned. Everything must be pursued, until the very end, before we turn around.

Her tits hang down to her belly button; big nipples, almost handfuls in themselves. She spreads her cunt; it’s wet. I want to fuck it until my cock bleeds. I’ve always had a fantasy for older women; fantasies, being things you want to do but decide that you can’t. Where, and how, do you find a woman to fuck that is twenty years older than you? I don’t know. But, I’d love to get real nasty with an older experienced woman. This wet pussy I’m looking at. No doubt, neglected; not given the attention it deserves. I want to worship it. Not on the page; in real life. I want to bury my face into a middle-aged cunt and eat my way out. It saddens me that this will probably never happen; that I am restricted to woman my own age; that I restrict myself. It saddens me that my fantasies are unfulfilled; that my fantasies are cruel.

Then again, if I can go out and pursue heroin on the streets surely I can go out and pursue some middle-aged pussy. The thing that worries me is where does it end? I feel like the more let myself go the more likely I am to let go completely; which is what I want. I fear what I want. We all do. We tell ourselves we want bullshit so that we can ignore what we really desire. We are perpetually unsatisfied; failure is ever-present in society. It’s easier to believe in laws than to believe in yourself; easier to believe in God. These things are finite, they are manageable; structural abstract nonsense providing – what we think are – much needed limitations to the infinitely variant.

I have been pursuing nothing, the infinite nothingness, for many years. Some people call deconstruction enlightenment. It is impossible to say what is at the end of the journey. The further you go, this doubt increases; the more you deconstruct preconceptions and human hurdles, the less you are inclined to continue. Until, eventually, you hit a big fucking snag. Holy people are not holy; they are only holy by contrast, to non-holy people. Absolute nothing has not been achieved. I’m not sure that it can be achieved. Though, maybe I’m just saying that to give myself an excuse to anchor. It seems to me that complete deconstruction, or “enlightenment” if you like, is like dividing zero by one. The first creature to evolve from this planet was not capable of enlightenment. So why should I be? There are always lessons to be learnt. There will always be goals beyond the goals that are visible. It is arrogant to assume, at this arbitrary moment in time, that I am able to achieve infinity. Those who approach the infinite will always approach the infinite; mathematics, with all its flawed human, logic tells us this. But maybe that’s the last step: linking finality with inconclusiveness.

Recently I came to believe in God. I know believe this, faith, to be a hurdle on the path to the actual God. The further you deconstruct, the more frightening it becomes. If you go on a spiritual journey towards nothing and – therefore – distance yourself from the rest of society, after a while religion starts looking pretty good. You find yourself in a void; in an absence of logic and reason; in an absence of everything and anything. The structure provided by religion, when you are lost, is immensely gratifying. But religion, really, is the opposite of religion; organized religion is a mirage one encounters on the way to actual religion. After deconstructing my entire life, and everybody’s lives, over the course of a decade, I became distraught. In a moment of weakness, I chose God. I chose to invent God; to give me an excuse to end my journey towards the infinite.

Man desires closure; man desires finality. We want things to make sense. We don’t want to die, unfinished. But we must. That is the nature of things. And it always will be the nature of things. A million years from now, there will be some other unimaginable form of life. Another million years and something else will live; unimaginable to the unimaginable. I am, in the grander scheme of things, both nothing and everything. I am; it is; we are: infinite.

I microwave some chicken nuggets and masturbate.

I wake up at midnight. It’s one of those awakenings like coming back to life; like I’ve been dragged out of a swimming pool and coughed up a lungful of chlorinated water. My short term memories come flooding back. Standing naked on the porch; lingering around Richmond looking for smack: I remember, but I don’t want to. I want to forget. I reset my palette with scotch; use Johnny Walker as mouthwash, then crack open a beer. It’s time to have a serious drink, to drink like alcoholics do. But, I don’t have the supplies. To get the most out of alcohol you need to stock up on consumables; a serious drink requires a healthy body. I have more than half a bottle of scotch to get through; I need to eat, a lot, or I’ll pass out prematurely. So, I go on a mission.

It’s two o’clock in the morning. I am stumbling down the side of a major suburban road holding a bottle of beer in one hand a joint in the other. A police car drives past at two hundred kilometres an hour. I see it before it sees me. I put the bottle on the ground as a reflex. Flick the joint into a bush. The cops have better things to do than pick on me tonight. Once they’re out of sight, I walk back and pick up the beer. I drink it quick and throw the bottle over a fence. Just in case. I remember the empty cop car in Richmond; once again, it occurs to me that I’m no different from the junky that helped me score. I’m paranoid; the invisible police are after me again.

I buy mixers; two cans of Mother, one bottle of Coke. On top of that I buy some snack food and a pornographic magazine. It’s difficult to find one that isn’t full of silicone laden sluts with Botox injections and re-constructed cunts. There aren’t any amateur mags, just fucking hustler and playboy and shit like that; blonde women and brunettes-dyed-blonde who take off their clothes for a living. The sort of pussy that gets wet on queue. Facial expressions like strippers on weekdays. Behind the fake smiles and pursed lips, you can see the boredom. You know, these porn chicks, they don’t respect the average guy who jerks off to them. No. We’re nothing to these ego freaks, less than nothing, we’re fucking pathetic. That’s why I don’t go for that sort of porn. It’s also why guys like virgins. An old girlfriend of mine could never understand what the appeal was in the inexperienced.

The inexperience is the appeal. Amateur girls are infinitely hotter than porn stars. Their nervousness is hot; they haven’t become jaded to being photographed, or bored with sex. Their pussy is wet because they are horny. They’re normal women, with normal lives, taking off their clothes and exposing their pink bits for a magazine spread. I honestly don’t understand how people prefer the bored porn-star alternative. I would rather watch a fifty year old woman strip down nervously in front of a camera than watch a porn start blow her fifty thousandth dick. Virgins appeal to men for the same reason: that innocent attitude towards sex that they have, untainted by a perpetual lack of satisfaction; the ratio of fantasy to reality is high.

I don’t like women who wear make-up. Advocating vanity in a particular gender is sexist. Women who wear make-up are no different than men who wear a lot of make-up. That’s really what equality means. We’re not there yet, as a species. Equality isn’t achieved upon declaration; there is a very long transition period from something to nothing. Same goes for racial equality; it’s still happening, we’re not there yet. Breaking down the gender divide, deconstructing sex, means things like cosmetics and lingerie need to go. They either need to go, or they need to be equal across the board; if it is accepted that women wear make-up, it should also be accepted that men wear make-up. Enlightenment is nothingness because everything is wrong. Adam and Eve should never have eaten the fruit and consequently clothed themselves. Clothes are wrong. Gender is wrong.

These things, they need to exist, so they can be disproved. The truth is not inherent; it is achieved via trial and error. We are created unaware of right and wrong. Upon creation we do not understand right. It is only through experiencing wrong, and opposing it, that we start heading in the correct direction. Conflict is at the core of literature. It is also at the core of spiritual evolution. When people say that God works in mysterious ways, what they mean is: everything happens for a reason. The holocaust is part of our journey. Every time somebody is raped or murdered. Every time somebody commits suicide. Every time a junky overdoses. It all contributes to the big picture. Our species observes history, past and present, and learns from it.

After experiencing the horrors of war, we are less inclined to declare it. The accounts of rape victims make us less inclined to rape people. And so on, and so forth. These people we condemn, they are the ones propelling the human race into the future. To do nothing, is to stagnate; to repress, is to delay. People shouldn’t fear sin or feel guilty for sinning. It’s all part of the process.

If you attempt to deconstruct everything, it never ends until there is nothing left. I’ve hit a couple of snags on my way to nothingness. One of them is sex. Like everything else, if you deconstruct sex, you end up with nothing. All of our taboos, all of our preconceptions about what is normal and what isn’t; they cease to exist. Perversion lies between aberration and enlightenment. To understand right and wrong you need to experience degrees of both; similarly, in order to understand sexuality you need to experience it from every angle imaginable.

Sex is an abstract territory. It needs to be explored, just as physical territories need to be explored. It is in our nature to explore the physical world and neglect the psychological; we repress the introverts and acclaim the extroverts. People feel like they need to do something to have value. They are embarrassed by their empty lives. They label others as perverted because they are afraid to pervert. Sexuality should be explored completely. Everything must be taken to the extreme in order for the boomerang effect of spiritual degradation and consequent enlightenment to occur. But, it’s difficult to go all the way; it’s difficult to detach from the norm.

I’ve sucked dick and I’ve eaten pussy. I find both, excluding hormones, to be equally enjoyable. What I mean by that is: the scent of a wet pussy gets me hard. There is a chemical aspect to heterosexual acts. Not to homosexual. There might be a psychological link between the smell of semen and the act of sex, but it isn’t hormonal. If you deconstruct hormones, and look at sex purely as an act of gratification, it is easy to justify bisexuality. Say you have two guys, or two girls, and they’re trapped on a desert island. It makes more sense for them to fuck then for them to not fuck. Whether they are “gay” is not a relevant question. What’s important is the orgasm. It is no co-incidence that homosexuality tends to occur more frequently in single-gender scenarios. The fact that straight guys who go to jail engage in homosexual acts proves that homosexual acts are not limited to homosexuals. And, therefore, sexuality does not exist. Those who are predisposed, for whatever reason, to same-sex relationships are no different than those who are predisposed to seeking out the opposite gender. We give them different labels, but – really – each one is just repressing the other side. It doesn’t end there. It goes beyond bisexuality.

Say there’s only one person on that desert island, a woman. She’s there all alone. No hope of being rescued. Then, an alien spaceship crashes onto the beach. A male humanoid alien climbs out. They become friends. They are both sexually frustrated. Two sentient beings marooned on a tiny desert island. They, too, should fuck. But, it doesn’t end there either.

Here’s another scenario. A woman, living on a remote ranch, is brushing her horse. The horse gets an erection. Should she neglect that horse cock? Fuck no. She should jerk that horse off. There was a study done on people who grew up on farms. An alarming percentage of them admitted to having sex with animals. On top of that there are those who are too ashamed to admit it. I’d think the latter category would be larger than the former. The point being, that – given the opportunity – humans will fool around. To understand what human means, we need to remove these restrictions that we place upon ourselves and just see what happens. Put two women together on a desert island; put a woman and an alien together on a desert island; put a woman and a horse together on a desert island: the result is always the same. Human means nothing.

So, anyway, I’m in the convenience store and the only magazine that isn’t full of porn stars is a chubby mag. Hustler doesn’t say skinny bitches with fake tits, yet “big and beautiful” is written on the cover: it’s a fetish mag, because the girls aren’t fucking anorexic. It comes in a two-pack with a typical porno – called Platinum Girls. I grab some other supplies: a couple of bottles of sports drinks and twenty dollars of McDonald’s from down the street.

When I get home, I pour myself a Mother and Johnny. I open Platinum first and feel next to nothing downstairs. It should be called Plastic; the women are all lip gloss and Botox; their tits are perfectly spherical; their skin is tanned and oiled; their eyes are dead. There is no humility; every one of them thinks they are fucking Goddesses; their egos are bigger than their tits.

I wake up at four o’clock in the afternoon with an empty head. Like someone’s taken a drill to me KGB style. My lobotomy, it’s left me with half of my original intelligence. I dress like a respectable citizen, whatever that means, and go to work. Have to turn the taxi around because I forget to wear long sleeves to cover fresh tracks. When I get to work the people around me, my co-workers, are oblivious. They’re trying to impress each other by detailing the volume of alcohol they’ve consumed over the weekend. I am the conservative one, the boring one; I remain silent.

There is no competition between them and me. I win, by default, every time. They are the sort of people who act like junkies without ever touching a needle; the sort of people who pretend to be something they are not. Their tattoos and their piercings are fake indicators; shrapnel and battle scars, shop-bought, fashioned in sterile environments; commercial war-paint.

These emo kids with their piercings and their tattoos; advertising shit that they aren’t a part of: I have to laugh. Like Chopper with his books and his interviews; people who declare I am the real deal. They aren’t. The fact that they are intent on advertising is proof enough for me.


My foot starting hurting after about two hours in the city. Walking this way and that. I think I sprained an ankle. The pain, now twenty four hours later, is still there. It’s rising, without the drugs. I can hardly walk. After work, I limp across campus, into the university pub. Order a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser; I drink them at the bar. I half-stumble, half-limp, back to the cashier; there’s a long line, so I go back to the pub while I’m waiting and order another whiskey and beer combo. I scam a cigarette of some androgynous looking mother fucker. He, or she, looks at me like I’m a fucking junky. I tell him, or her, that I’m sorry for being such a scourge on society and light the fucking cigarette. Sit down at a table alone; I drink slowly, killing time before returning to the cashier. I read over a short story I wrote last year. It’s fucking shit, garbage; I can do a thousand times better now that I know what I know.

Back at the cashier, there’s a shit-stirring Indian guy arguing over the counter about how much of an inconvenience reality is. It’s one of those pointless conversations people have with themselves solely for the purposes of illustration; he’s arguing so people can see how upset he is. I want to get up and intervene; I want to save this poor woman from his condemnation. But, I don’t. I sit there and think about being a hero. I fantasize about being a good guy. That’s enough for me.

On the way home, I go into the bottle-o to get some beer. I come out with a six-pack of cheap Mexican lager, a bottle of discount scotch, and a couple of other odds and ends. It’s a public holiday, so the bus is going to take at least half an hour. I limp down the street, my foot becoming worse with every step; stopping every fifty metres to take a swig of scotch. It occurs to me at some point that I drink so hard to prove to people that appearances are not always what they seem; the whole “I may look like a fucking accountant, but – I assure you – I’m a nut bag” dilemma.

I’m tired of being the go-to guy, society’s most approachable citizen, so I compensate by acting like a cunt. I piss into somebody’s letterbox, remembering that I have an unpaid fine for public urination. This is a good way to end up back in court; I know that, but I don’t give a fuck. The amount of alcohol I have to drink to forget about the pain in my leg, it makes me retarded; the pain in my leg, it’s a good excuse to kill brain cells.

When I get home, I get naked immediately. I stand out on the back porch in my birthday suit drinking scotch, yelling at the neighbours. Fucking cunts, silently judging me all the time, giving me those wish-you-lived-somewhere-else looks; I threaten to kill their children, cut off their heads and shit down their throats.