Psychubus
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 14, 2006
- Messages
- 1,256
I can safely say I'm not addicted to drugs... only the sweet, sweet lullaby of the rig's plunge. I'll shoot anything up--PCP, ketamine, LSD, adderall, the pebble I carpet crawled off your shoe. And why not? Filtering, registering, injecting. It's so methodical; it's an art form.
My little habit wouldn't be such a problem, if it weren't for the fact that all the points on the injection sites gradually add up before the old scars can heal (especially during peak binge times), thereby creating a formidable decoration of scars in my limbs. It's like I played Connect-The-Dots or some shit, or drilled holes preparing my own set of train tracks the entire city can spot from a mile away.
Oh sure, every now and then, people make comments. They want to know what the gashes on my arms are all about. When I was working at an ice cream store, way back when I was a wee little teenager, it was usually soccer moms that wanted to know why there was blood-crust leakage oozing down my elbows onto their kids' sundaes. Um... for a little extra flava on top?
Hey, don't look at me like that! I tried to be a lady; I showed up to work once covering myself with long sleeves, but nooooo, my manager had to bitch about how I was not wearing the company uniform. I tried fighting, but what was the use? "Okay...You're the boss."
I was living in PARANOID FUCKING CITY after that. I had to be working around people with my most private area naked, EXPOSED for all to see! To hide that I was an IV drug user, I started concealing my tracks with makeup, and then patting myself on the back immediately afterwards with, "You're so clever, you must be butter cause you're on a roll." But when my arm deteriorated from "mint-poor condition" to "Requiem for a Dream condition" and not even FUCKING MAC BRAND MAKEUP could cover the train wreck, I burst into tears and started crying my ass off. I knew I had to find a way to keep living my dream out.
After that, whenever anybody asked about my marks, my excuse inevitably became, "Oh haha, yeah, about that... I'm just a cutter, been doing it since the 3rd grade... (nervous laughter)" or "Um... I got a tattoo... of constellations. See? There's the Big Dipper...and the Big Dipper again..."
The only exception was my dealer, whom seemed to have an obsession, or rather, a bizarre perversion with my arms. A fetish, if you will.
"It's like a timeline chart of all the drugs you've bought in sequence!" he would put my arm up to his nose and begin foaming at the mouth. "From this point to this point, this is where you bought me my car... From this line to this line, you put in enough to send my kid to school... God, I think I love you... Squeeze my venous, I'm getting hard..."
What can I say? Everytime he sees me, he always wants to bang an issue. Hey...you gotta get your kicks somewhere, eh? EH?!!??!?
My little habit wouldn't be such a problem, if it weren't for the fact that all the points on the injection sites gradually add up before the old scars can heal (especially during peak binge times), thereby creating a formidable decoration of scars in my limbs. It's like I played Connect-The-Dots or some shit, or drilled holes preparing my own set of train tracks the entire city can spot from a mile away.
Oh sure, every now and then, people make comments. They want to know what the gashes on my arms are all about. When I was working at an ice cream store, way back when I was a wee little teenager, it was usually soccer moms that wanted to know why there was blood-crust leakage oozing down my elbows onto their kids' sundaes. Um... for a little extra flava on top?
Hey, don't look at me like that! I tried to be a lady; I showed up to work once covering myself with long sleeves, but nooooo, my manager had to bitch about how I was not wearing the company uniform. I tried fighting, but what was the use? "Okay...You're the boss."
I was living in PARANOID FUCKING CITY after that. I had to be working around people with my most private area naked, EXPOSED for all to see! To hide that I was an IV drug user, I started concealing my tracks with makeup, and then patting myself on the back immediately afterwards with, "You're so clever, you must be butter cause you're on a roll." But when my arm deteriorated from "mint-poor condition" to "Requiem for a Dream condition" and not even FUCKING MAC BRAND MAKEUP could cover the train wreck, I burst into tears and started crying my ass off. I knew I had to find a way to keep living my dream out.
After that, whenever anybody asked about my marks, my excuse inevitably became, "Oh haha, yeah, about that... I'm just a cutter, been doing it since the 3rd grade... (nervous laughter)" or "Um... I got a tattoo... of constellations. See? There's the Big Dipper...and the Big Dipper again..."
The only exception was my dealer, whom seemed to have an obsession, or rather, a bizarre perversion with my arms. A fetish, if you will.
"It's like a timeline chart of all the drugs you've bought in sequence!" he would put my arm up to his nose and begin foaming at the mouth. "From this point to this point, this is where you bought me my car... From this line to this line, you put in enough to send my kid to school... God, I think I love you... Squeeze my venous, I'm getting hard..."
What can I say? Everytime he sees me, he always wants to bang an issue. Hey...you gotta get your kicks somewhere, eh? EH?!!??!?
