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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.

It is the same bathroom I have injected in thousands of times. The same bathroom I collapsed a vein. I am drunk, again, so I have to be careful. I try a couple of veins under my elbow, resting the pick against the muscles in my forearm. It doesn’t work. They’ve shrunk, either that or I’m just pissed; probably both. After a couple of failed attempts I decide to mimic the doctor. This crazed speed freak junky that I met on Victoria Street; I recreate his shot. And it works perfectly.

My mind is clear. There is no anxiety. No withdrawals from other shit. I am a fucking skyscraper. I am God. I am everything. I start racing around the room like a fly confined by architecture. Then, quickly, I mix up the rest of the bag. The second shot is as perfect as the first. It slips in and out, just as demonstrated. Blood, one second; gone the next. My body is pulsing with euphoric waves. I jump in the shower and lose myself. I don’t know how much time passes: maybe an hour; probably more like two minutes. Either way, it feels amazing. I am God.

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.

I was supposed to quit all psychedelics for six months. Weed was a pipe dream, though. Complete abstinence from psychedelics wasn’t likely; I knew that from the beginning. In the end, I didn’t last one day without smoke. This failure: I justified it by forcing myself to refrain from tripping; my inability to quit smoking weed would go hand in hand with my ability to resist the mushroom. In the end, I would be consuming less, which is better than a kick in the dick with a steel-capped boot. Failing completely was too depressing a notion to even consider. Another failure, another stain on my conscience: the dirty rag that absorbs all of my spilled, and forgotten, dreams; my endlessly faithful inner voice. The little version of me with wings and a halo: it never gives up; no matter how much neglect I inflict upon myself. It says, without a quiver of doubt, that I will succeed one day; all evidence to the contrary. It tells me all is not lost, when nothing good can be found. My conscience, it enables me; it is the thin film between my descent and the rocks at the bottom.

I never made any effort to deal with the withdrawals I experienced from my epic mushroom binge; instead, I distracted myself with non-psychedelics. Alcohol – being the only thing readily available to me – replaced the hallucinogenic mushrooms; my vow to never drink again, defeated by my decision to stop tripping: sixty-five alcohol-free days, down the drain. But the sauce didn’t satisfy me like it used to. I found myself, after little over two month’s absence, genuinely not wanting to return to drunkenness; the bar for recreational-drugs having been raised significantly by a psychedelic binge from hell. Compensation, if it were to exist, had to come from something else; something stronger; something capable of smothering my anxiety.

The choice was obvious; the next drug on my to-do list: heroin. But I didn’t seek it out; I continued to drink, emptying bottle after bottle of beer. To score would require hitting the streets and picking up off someone I didn’t know. The idea tortured me. It lingered in my brain, calling me a coward; laughing. The little version of me with horns and a tail, reminding me that my true desires had once again been outnumbered by my fears; reminding me that I am a failure.

Days went by without mushrooms, but I continued to hallucinate. Without alcohol, my anxieties resurfaced – so I tried to stay drunk as much as possible; my desire to get some gear rising with every sip. Until, finally, I reached my breaking point.

Wandering back and forth on the platform, fuelled by frustrations; my mind an endless mess of overlapping and contradicting thoughts: I had no idea what I was doing. Whether I should appear anxious, like I’m already addicted, or calm so as not to create any suspicion; whether I should talk to people or just tried to establish eye contact; what terminology I should use; how much it was going to cost: these questions had no answers. And, consequently, I had no approach.

At one point I was sitting on a train, eavesdropping on two smacked out goons talking about how fucked up they were; just as I was about to say something to them, they started boasting loudly about their exploits robbing and assaulting people. This was the closest I came to approaching someone, before returning home a failure. I couldn’t bring myself to buy a six pack of beer on the way back; alcohol, the consolation prize, was a fucking insult.

Back home, the jar of mushrooms kept popping into my head; I couldn’t shake it: tripping was inevitable without a suitable replacement. I had a choice. To return to the land of psychedelics and, by doing so, give up on the idea of a sober day; or go back out there and find some fucking smack: in my mind, heroin being the only thing to save me from my addictions. The opiate world is unfamiliar territory; heroin is, yet, untainted by my recklessness. I have abused everything else beyond repair; ruined entire classes of drugs. Opiates remain pure, untarnished, and, therefore, guilt-free. The decision to move on to heroin is a good one. I don’t have a smack problem yet; so, using is not yet an issue. Under the guise of convincing myself I can use drugs responsibly, I have a whole new class of drugs to explore and ruin. I smoke three joints and get on a train to the city.

Richmond station is crowded with football folk; true blue Australians dressed head to toe with merchandise. Colour-coded beanies, jerseys and flags; their faces painted to match. These sports enthusiasts, they make my mission impossible. So, I start walking.

I mean to head towards the city, but I’m too stoned to think properly. I walk for twenty minutes in the wrong direction, half-aware that I’m off-track. Upon realizing my mistake, I turn around to see the silhouette of Melbourne’s skyscrapers. The city, it is huge; I have been walking aimlessly away from these enormous structures, practically oblivious. I laugh at myself.
On the way back towards the station, I duck into a bottle-o and buy a beer. It’s a good costume for someone who definitely isn’t a narc; cops don’t walk around drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon, regardless of their position regarding cover. Continuing to drink throughout the mission was all part of the strategy. Getting pissed, while stoned, in the middle of a hunt for heroin; it is the only way to resist temptation. I am quitting mushrooms; I am doing a good thing.

I walk down the street, listening to the Velvet Underground, drinking beer, and scanning faces for likely drug-dealers. I ask a couple of harmless-looking people. I know they won’t be able to help me; I ask them, so I can go home telling myself that I tried: predictably, they brush me off. Some of them are disgusted by the very notion; a junky, actually talking to them, asking them for gear. I guess the implication is that if I ask them, they too look like junkies. And nobody wants that.

I throw my empty beer into an alleyway. A homeless man asks me for change. I offer him two dollars for a tip on where to score some smack. He tells me to go down to Victoria Street. He says to get on the Church Street tram and follow it to the end of the line; I walk, instead, drinking beer after beer as I go. The alcohol combines nicely with the weed.
Wandering through darkening streets full of drunken maniacs, I feel good; my mind is protected by a sedative cloud. By the time I reach my destination, I feel like actually going through with it. Fuck the consequences. But it’s not as easy as all that.

The homeless man led me to a fortress; a series of high-rise buildings, government commissioned flats. This place, this retirement home for the perpetually downtrodden, it requires a key-card to get through the doors. I watch a junky scan himself through a series of entry-points to reach the elevator; concluding that there is no way to get in. I keep walking, down Victoria Street. Everybody that walks past me has this look about them, like they just got out of prison.

I keep my mouth shut. Asking them would be suicide. That’s what my mind told me anyway. These people, they aren’t even human beings; they’re animals waiting for feeding time. They want me to give them an excuse. Just because they’re Maori or Vietnamese, doesn’t make them a fucking drug dealer. And, I should know that. Fucking racist little spoilt white cunt that I am. That’s what they say, in my dramatization, before they stab me to death with a biro and piss on my corpse. If I’m going to ask someone, seriously, it needs to be a white guy. And, he needs to be smaller than me.

Sell your soil to me
my asylum within, a troubled teens insecurity
engulfs the weak and sinned
their wishes litter the deep blue
in shiney glass, bottles.
of rum and whiskey are our role, models.

Embrace its time to elope
surrender to him, this is is no hoax
reality, sets in
now, you've got to be kidding me
because you are..fading
away..again
and in..hell
omit, help

Im dying, rotting and corroding.
How are you?

Alright so I have some time on my hands and have decided to post a blog reminiscing about some past adventures I got in right after turning 18, before going to rehab and attempting sobriety (sadly so) and before the half way houses and murders, od's, and psychotic enemies. Basically back when drugs were still cool.

So i had been a member of this forum for a decent period of time. Basically I joined it right around the time a began smoking weed. Anyway at a certain post a few spam posts where made which a person was advertising a mail order marijuana service. They were obviously quickly deleted and I suppose that user account banned but a friend from the forum was able to snag the email address before the admins deleted the post.

He tells me over AIM that he has been in contact with the person and he is happy to say they are really cool and has a variety of products available. He gives me the email address and says to give the guy a chance.

So i go ahead and proceed to email the guy and so begins a ~ two years adventure which involved all kinds of action but mostly was a great experience to try a variety of different drugs and gain some experience with handling powder products and learning the ropes of drug dealing. Anyway so i email this guy and he tells me he has weed and hash but he isn't really keen on sending it in the mail but he has mdma crystal available for 50 us dollars a gram. I was broke as a joke at the time but say is there anyway I can score a sample for the time being... He says not a problem and asks for my name and address (keep in mind I'm still living with my parents at the time) but I give him the information anyway. For the next two weeks I was in an utter panic. I seriously thought the dea or fbi would be kicking down my door an arresting me on the spot. Randomly one say I decide to check the mail (wasn't really expecting to find anything) In the mail was a letter addressed to me with a postage mark from the netherlands. I'm like holy shit this is it! So i take it upstairs open it up and inside of the package is a folded wax paper with aproximately 200mgs of tan mdma powder in it. I snort the entire amount that night (I was already experienced with pills such as the og blue dolphins, mercedes, etc...). Loved it.

A few months later i began a friendship with a friend and we decided to start slanging molly together. Ordered or first gram split 50/50 or 25 25 really because the gram cost 50. Sent cash to his p o box in Amsterdam. I received the package but ended up just doing it with 2 other friends to my orginal friend's (we'll call him Person S for clarity) chagrin. I ended up paying him back but we ended up buying 2 grams to sell. This time everything worked out and we made some serious cash. Now this is where it gets interesting. I started experimenting with a variety of chemicals including lsd and heavier cocaine use than i had previous done. I also started taking clonozepam to help cope with my manic bi polar swings in combination of course with heavy marijuana use.

Me and Person S teamed up with a local mushroom dealer and a local ecstasy middle man to create what we thought would be a drug syndicate and we would supply our city and few other local ones with large amounts of mdma shipped to us from Amsterdam, cultivated mushrooms grown at a friends apartment, weed grown there two (all equipment, spores, and seeds would be provided by us), and a variety of research chemicals that would be bought of of websites. We even went as far to start marketing a combination of aproximately 10mg's of 2ce and 100mgs of mdma as a capsule called heaven which we planned on flooding the local rave scene with. During this time I also began dating a girl who would play a major role in my life for the following 8 months and torment me even up until now. Basically not to cut ahead but she left me for one of the syndicate members but I then found out it was all a big ruse because she was annoyed with my irresponsible behavior (beligerent promiscuioty) irrational drug use, not tending to emotional needs etc... especially in relation to our daughter which she refuse to let me see or even talk to me about.

Back to the story, i started making some pretty good money selling any psychedelic product i could get my hands on and had some awesome times doing it. For example I was rolling a blunt in person S vehicle and while attempting to dable some kief i had in a pill bottle I dropped about half the entire pill bottle of kief we then basically said fuck it and smoked the whole damn blunt. After driving a girl home the herb started kicking in and as soon as we parked person S opened his door and literally fell flat on his face. Thats how high we were. Anyway one night i picked up a 10 strip of some lsd paper which had come highly reccommended from my paper dealer at the time who was a chemistry major and seriously knew his stuff. The paper he called the "sandpaper" from the "Sandman" and i shit you not was so potent that the lsd crystals were bulging right off the blotter. I linked up with my buddy and dropped two. We then linked up with a local high school senior who was throwing a party in a gated neighborhood actually right accross the water from the apartment I'm living at now. By the time we got there the party was just getting broken up but almost everyhouse in the neighbor hood was having some sort of get together. We were ushered out of one because we weren't really invited but the guy was pretty respectful.

We drive around and we make a call for a gram of coke for which turned out pretty well because the guy usually cuts the stuff he gets but this time he was going to sell it to me pure. We go all the way out to butt fuck egypt to pick up the bag and I'm so fucked up from the lsd everything has a moving psychedelic auro to it. Imagine watching a movie but all the sillhoutes looked like the were coming from the milk drop visualizer on winamp. Because of this state I almost don't even get the bag because I can't find 10 bucks for it but it ends up working out. I end up going home before even breaking into the coke but. I flip on scar face take the last two hits of the cid and start doing lines. Line after line to the end scene were Tony is flipping out shooting at la mara screaming I'll take your bullets. Or better yet shoving his face into a torn open key. So I kill the gram and am tripping balls and can't slip for shit. I had two 2mg klon's on me so I popped those and tried to go to sleep. Didn't work out so I just stay there in bed holding on for dear life haha. Next morning my shipment of molly came in (4 g's) and I'm so wrecked from the partying I'm like dgaf and grab my straw and stick my nose right in the bag.

My buddy picks me up and I start talking all kinds of gibberish. Like having phone calls from my girlfriend later turned wife whom I'm seperated from or something without even having a phone in my hand or being on one period. They drop me off at my parents house thinking I was gonna overdose but I was okay just black out high. My parents obviously concerned, respond by calling me an abulance where open I was taken to a hospital to recieve a check up. My blood pressure was fine but because of my incoherence and the amount of drugs in my system they admitted me to a room and baker acted me. I remember awaking in an empting room with no one around and no joke it was pretty freaky. One of the coolest and scariest weekends of my life.

Because of this I seriously backed off all substances (my parents threatened to kick me out if I didn't check myself into rehab) and almost lost the my girlfriend (who ended up leaving me anyway so I guess it doesn't really matter but shes okay just doing her). That ended the Matrix syndicate and left everyone involved minus the low key mushroom dealer pretty bitter.

I guess everyone makes a come back at one time or another...

More in a minute.

I have one 40 Mg opana. Well, now I have 20 Mg cause I just took half. I do snort them because when I swallow them my stomach goes wild. I have 3 ulcers. One in my esophagus and 2 in my stomach. I know doing it this way causes a lot of addiction problems and I was taking up to 4 30's per day. I am prescribed these (only 2 /day) but always run out early because I they only last a couple hours at best. I am a cpp (i have duffuse scleroderma) but need to figure something else out. I am going to get the stuff for the Thomas recipe today and got lots of lope and 7 8mg suboxone. Since the formula for opana has changed and you cannot snort them, I do not want to even try the new ones. I am not a junkie but feel like one because the only way I could take these without folding over in gastro pain is snort them. I am SO scared of what is going to happen to me. I told my husband and he is super supportive and will help me through this. I want to try a different way to manage my pain. Something holistic. The only thing I worry about is the pain I will feel and that won't go away with the withdrawals. I need support and people I don't know to talk to about this. I am so worried and scared. I don't know if I should start taking the lope now or wait and I'm debating on weather these subs are worth it or not. I really need help. I have looked at this site for a while and just recently joined. I did use topix but the amount of assholes and junkies there is not who I want help from. If you have any advice to offer PLEASE do. I am scared shitless! Should I use the subs short term? Will I withdrawal from those if I just take them for a short time? I also take savalla, a med for fibromyalgia and I have a lot of ultram. I have klonopin that I take for anxiety and and 20 vicoden. How should I do this??? Thank you in advance for any help.

Help, Apple

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A mini goal I had set for myself was to not have to empty my garbage can during Lent. Well, four weeks in, and that thing was full (it's only a small two foot tall, one foot wide oval bin). All of the trash inside was from the past four weeks--I started with an empty bin. Most of the contents were paper products--Cardboard boxes, post-it notes, printer paper. (The paper that goes into the bin is going to start getting reused for scrap paper as I was a bit shocked by the near-blank pages that were going in the trash that I didn't even think about.) Very little of it was actual recyclable plastic (had one plastic bag that contained vacuum cleaner bags, which was bought awhile ago, and had another plastic bag from the bulk department*). All of the non-recyclable plastic I generated within the first four weeks of Lent fit inside of two small sandwich bags.

*Won't ever have to use those bags again! Recently bought some reusable bags for bulk bins and am pretty excited to have been using them a couple times for buying produce.

:D

My other goal for Lent is going along steadily. It had been picking up pace during week four since I had a week off from school, but unfortunately it has taken its spot on the back burner again since school has to take precedence at this point. I have approximately three more weeks of homework and classes, and three weeks after that of full-time internships at two different locations (7ish days each). Then I have a huge cumulative exam for this semester, and I am graduated. Then I just have to take the registration exam, and then the job hunt begins.

Once I pass that registration exam (which isn't too far off--June or July), my life can come into focus instead of obtaining my degree.

just had some today with my girlfriend we started at 2pm saturday only had to buy 2 gram and got an extra one free, so went out with 7 mates got on it and still managed to leave my mates nearly a full gram then brought home with me a gram, had my last line at 11.30pm and havent had another one yet and im still sat her off my noodle, no signs of cuming down and ive even been having fat joints aswell and still feel buzzin!!! been on fone to my mates and they still have more than half a g left and they are all fuked lol, none of them wanting another line for a while. my girlfriend had a 0.3g in a rizzla and bombed it at 12pm and is still fucked up on another planet lol, cnt believe how good this stuff is havent had good stuff like this in a while as we have been on bubble most weekends for the past year! and the buzz off this nrg3 is in a totally different league to any bubble ive had and ive had some pretty shit hot stuff but no were near as good as this nrg3, would definatly buy again but would get 10g next time <snip> the feeling off this nrg3 is amazing i felt like i was floating, so wired that i could not even talk and think at some point of the night. im sat here now at home still off my trolley and havent touched any of it since 11.30pm, and its now 5.30am sunday morning dont even know what to do with my self so throught id write a review and let people know my experience for the first time, it was a kind of tan colour its not crystally at all just powder, smells abit like sweaty socks tbh lol! but the buzz is amazing!! still dont even need one at this moment in time feel soo fucked! sat here i thinking what to write now lol.. well thats about it <snip> amazing stuff would definatly recommend, and it comes in red and white capsules you dont need alot of this 1 capsule will fuck you up! honestly you dont understand until you try it yourself! 7 of my mates who are still on it now aswell and they r all FUCKED LOL... cant explain how else i feel because i dont even now myself im so fucked.. just come back online and its been 7 hours since my gf had the bomb and she still really really FUCKED!!!! Amazing stuff the best i have ever had even better than ecstasy and its the most cheapest nite out ever all u need is a gram or 2... BUT!! be prepared to be up for a long timee! id give yourself about a whole weekend this is how fucked it gets you all u need is one bomb and thats it for around 8 hours! best stuff ever to get you on a proper buzz honestly though u need to be careful when taking this as because its 99.8% pure it is very very strong shit cant believe how much shit im just sat here chattin mad as fuck been sat in my bedroom since midnight fucked and not even been able to have another line or owt yett. really cant explain how good the feeling is on this nrg3 <snip>

Well I use to use a livejournal account but because I havent in years I forgot the password. The last post I ever made in it was about how I use to be a depressing alcoholic who drank himself to sleep every night. These days I look back on it and laugh, those days werent that hard.

The best day of my life was when i met my current girlfriend. I love her with everything and we were both in a bad spot when we met. The relationship started fast and we fell for each other very quickly. I was in college at the time and didnt realize how easy i had it. I spent the whole summer with her and that was only 2 years ago.

These days we spend our free time shooting dope. It hard to think about how we got here. Its only been 2 years since we started our journey together. I guess i started writing this because everyone wants someone to hear their story whether they exist or not they just want to feel like it meant something.

Ill start at the beginning. It was the summer of 2010 I had just left college and wasnt returning for that semester, financial aid and shit got fucked. She said it would be great to get an 80 and use it together. Prior to this time i only used them alone and when i was upset, of course i agreed. We did it and it was amazing. I think we said i love you to each other that night just something we had both been feeling. But that was the start. That connection was a friend he got them for us like 3 times total, he wouldnt have me become an addict. Naturally it didnt take long to meet someone else. We did them once a week it seemed. Progressively doing more and more. It started with 40mg making me sick then we were doing 60 each and feeling good. This kept going on and on till i met an actual whole sale dealer. Next thing i knew it was 3 each 3 times a week, every other day like clock work.

We would stop every once in a while claiming that we didnt want to get addicted or whatever. There were no WDs to really speak of other then the desire. This continued for a while about 8 months. The time seemed to fly when you look back at it. All our dreams and things we would tell each other never happened.

About 8 months ago we started using heroin. It started with blowing 2.5 bags each. We were able to do this a lot, which is why heroin is bad i guess. Next thing you know its daily or at least 5/7 days a week. We get introduced to shooting the whole time saying just once this feels dirty. It didnt stop though, we spent so many nights crying knowing what we had to do we just never stopped. Now we fight over stupid shit. It feels like once the d comes everything is ok and i was fine with that for a while. Until last last night.

She told me i didnt have to get it but being the idiot i am i got it in my head and once its there its not leaving. So i wait around forever for this jackass to score. I do i bring it home all happy. We are both happy then the problem occurs, i cant find a vein on her. I keep stabbing in the dark tension grows and grows. Then we start fighting she gets really pissed at me and im getting pissed at her. Well not her but her veins if they would just show i could get this over with. I felt so trapped i wanted to spray it on the ground and say she was right we dont need it tonight, shes always right. I couldnt though it was here and if i did that it would make things worse. I felt like i was stuck i felt like i couldnt stab her anymore but i had to i had to because it had to be done. Shes bleeding and crying saying fuck it its not going to work whats the point. Im squeezing her arm hard trying to get veins to show. Finally i get it after i take a second to do myself. We both apologize.

3 hours later shes angry. Shes pissed at me or the situation again she said i was hurting her because i was mad just like her ex boyfriend did. I looked back at it and i was i wasnt mad at her i was mad at her veins but theres no difference. I started crying shes completely right i got pissed and used extra force. I dont want to use anymore I do but i dont.

I have this plan to marry her i have the most beautiful ring all designed in my head. But i know if we keep this up it will be like all the other promises, it wont happen. I want to be clean again like it was in the beginning. I dont long for those days i long for a time when it was just us. I know we can be there again where its just us in bed together holding each other. Now those times are interupted by the dope man or something equally as bad. I feel like im in requiem for a dream, my only goal in life was to save her and make her happy. I ruined that because i saw it in opiates, the lies they tell us and make us believe. I should have listened to those who came before who had been there. Now although the love is there its blocked theres something in the way of making us truly happy.

I know our future is bright i know this will all end, it starts with me. It starts with accepting the fact shes going to yell, shes going to fight with me. She wont leave me because i dont get drugs she wont stop loving me, but neither one of us will make this easy. We will try to make it as easy as we can but i know what its going to be like.

If you ever read this, I love you. Ive said it countless times but i never meant for this, i just had this dream coupled with my own insatiable curiosity. For all the times we blame ourselves each other forces beyond our control, there is no blame. There is a way to make it all end to make it so these few dreams i still hold close dont burn up too. You've been nothing but supportive to me and tried so hard. I know something is going to give soon. I love you.

Ohhhh, so this is what Heroin is supposed to be like. Duh. That other stuff I didn't enjoy. I don't know, it was probably just super shitty. It was underwhelming. I don't even remember getting a nod. I had Opana for the past 5 days and that was awesome but I finished it so I needed something to taper with so I thought it would be a good idea to get some heroin but I didn't realize it would be this great. I've done a little over 1 bag. And I have to be good by Monday... shit. I wish I had the money for a bundle of this shit... fucking great... Along with some marijuana, benzos and an antihistamine... Fantastic.

Even the drip tastes similar to oxy... it's fantastic... it's all brown and chunky and I wish I had more Xanax... why be sad? You can get Heroin! This is fantastic. I want to do everything pleasurable in the world right now, but I can't do anything besides sit in my chair. Wow. I am floored. How can I go back to oxy after this experience? Maybe the hellish withdrawals will stop me.

I ended up getting some money so I bought 2 bags of heroin. I think he overcharged me but whatever, let him get a kick too, whatever...

Yay, heroin. I don't give a FUCK about ANYTHING except to say IT'S AWESOME because everything is awesome... I can't think of a single thing that wouldn't be awesome right now except withdrawals.

Hurt now or hurt later.

I am choosing to hurt later. Obviously. It will come back to bite me in the ass as it usually does... bah.

Today, the same day I got my court case closed, my neighbor across the hall was evicted. All of his stuff was taken out of his apartment and thrown on the curb for the sanitation department to get rid of. He did have some weird shit. He had a couple of guitars and tons of books. (We jokingly called him the Grim Reader because his demeanor was very... sullen and he would read a lot outside. He'd always be muttering to himself about God knows what and he always smelled pretty bad and wore creepy trench coats no matter the weather and had a very looming manner in his presence...

So yeah, that could have been US but it wasn't. It freaked me the fuck out honestly and I'm happy I know I have a place to live until March 31st. Then I need to make it a priority to pay the rent first thing every month before I spend anything on drugs. (Haha, stupid addict, when will you learn?)

So yes I have a lot of shit to sort out, my head being first. I'm getting a tax refund soon so I'm going to buy a futon and get the dogs' shots and then it's pretty much going to drugs. My last binge, really, because I need to get my shit together. And yet I doubt myself and my ability to be able to get my shit together. Sigh. I guess we'll see.

I want to wait to post this because I already have a blog entry on the front page but I just had to get this out, so please excuse me if this is getting a little redundant. I just like being able to get my thoughts out. I used to journal in notebooks a lot but I always did that when I was out of my apartment. Like at school or on the subway or on a lunch break at work but I find I can only write if certain circumstances are met and I don't feel that they're met right now. Sometimes I like to write with pen and paper but I'll nod out and write gibberish... ridiculous stuff, really.

I wanna smoke another cigarette and more marijuana and maybe drink some whiskey but I am pushing it already with the benzos, opiates, marijuana and antihistamines... Don't need to add alcohol to the mix. Some cocaine would be fantastic though! Jesus! My brain would wilt... not that it hasn't already...

I put a tiny flower I picked from a tree into my neighbor's mailbox... I wonder what he will think. (This is a different neighbor, not the evicted one.) I just wanted to brighten up someone's day. Randomly. I dunno why I chose him. Probably because I am high on heroin...

I know no one will read this but toodles!

I take ll three and I swera the klonopin isn't working;I took 15 one day and all I felt was tired at the end of the day?do they interact?

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I was a lucid dream virgin until last night.

I have just started taking 5-htp (split into two evening doses, one before dinner, another before bed).
Lat night I was in a dream world that I was able to control. I made conscious decisions.
It was absolutely amazing

To be honest, up until now, I thought that lucid dreams didn't exist.
I thought that people who claimed to control their dreams - were simply dreaming they had control.
How incredibly wrong I was!

It doesn't matter what I dreamt about.
My dreams are usually confusing and detailed. This was no exception.
Something about an institution, driving, people I knew.. Nothing exciting.
BUT - I had control - it was so much fun!

Strangest thing - despite all the dream action, I woke up refreshed.
This is a new development. I wonder why.

It's night time, I'm off to bed! Yay!