ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
Fungus (5.7 grams), Weed (1 gram) & Alcohol (18 standard drinks) - The Weather Report
The relapse. It was bound to happen eventually. Prior to this trip report, I haven't had a drink or a smoke for five weeks. Five long fucking weeks. I've been so good. Problem is, the longer I am good the more I have to compensate by fucking up. Being sober for five weeks gives me an excuse to go nuts.
The sky is overcast.
0:00
I take 4 gel caps, containing approximately 2.1 grams of dried mushrooms.
+0:15
I decide, fuck it, I might as well go all out today. I deserve a big crazy trip. So I take another 4 gel caps, making the total dose approximately 4.2 grams of dried mushrooms, vaporize 0.2 grams of weed, and jump on the tram to go get some nitrous bulbs.
+0:55
I’m extremely stoned. It takes me half an hour to find the keys. I understand why I like being stoned so much. It’s the only time when I don’t have a thousand thoughts racing around in my head. It doesn’t stupify me, it reminds me that there is no need to stress so much. Everybody is so concerned about their responsibilities. Failing to meet our self expectations, we curse ourselves. But none of that shit really matters. The events of this material life are like the events in a dream. It doesn’t matter how successful you are or how unsuccessful you are. Because, either way, you wake up and it’s all over. I’ve been having lucid dreams. More often than not they are fleeting. Moments of awareness prior to waking up. But sometimes, I can prevent myself from waking up. The trick is to not recognize that you are dreaming, without becoming fully aware of what that actually means.
I have had a recurring dream my entire life. It starts off with me running. I’m not running away from anything. I am not afraid. I am just running. Faster and faster. The distance between steps growing steadily until it becomes unbelievable. I am leaping from foot to foot, jumping hundreds of metres with each step. The same thoughts always go through my head.
“How could I have never noticed this before? My entire life, I’ve been able to fly.”
Then I realize, “This is a dream,” and – most of the time – I wake up. The dream world transitions into the waking world. In between, I often see images of reality mixed with images from the dream. In those few seconds, I am both awake and asleep.
It is difficult to maintain this contradiction. Simply by knowing that I am asleep causes me to wake up. The only way to stay asleep, while transitioning into a lucid dream, is to simultaneously realize not only that you are dreaming – but, also, that you are not. The world of the lucid dream must be convincing if you are to exist within it. It must exist as a real place, but not too real. And as a dream, without being too-dream like. Lucid dreaming is like being stoned. I am neither here nor there.
This feels like a dream. I have this lingering thought, that I’m not really here. As if I’m in that moment just before the waves break – and I’m about to wake up.
+3:00
I walk into the homewware store, fucked off my head. I figure, it doesn’t matter. They know me. I’ll be quick. To quick to answer questions. I have a whole back story worked out anyway. I’m a caterer, trying to start a new business. But everything is wrong. All the equipment has been moved around. Instead of bulbs, there’s a fucking saucepan. It totally throws me of. I start to freak out a little bit.
The storeperson, she say, “Can I help you?” like she’s already pushed the silent alarm.
I tell her I’m looking for cream bulbs. I say it, slurred. I am clearly drunk and on a lot of drugs.
I start explaining what cream bulbs are. Little metallic cannisters. I don’t say they are full of nitrous oxide. That is apparent. I am a huffer. I huff gases. I’m clearly off my head. My breath stinks of alcohol. She tells me the store has changed hands; the product I am referring to. They no longer sell it. She repeats the words “Cream bulbs” three or four times like I just stabbed her baby sister in the vagina with my pointy cock. I almost fall into a display on my way out.
So they changed ownership. Well that’s just fucking typical. Taking a tram and a bus to buy a hundred and fifty cannisters of nitrous oxide. That was my plan for the day. I’m thirty years old. My plan for the day was – basically - to get as fucked up as possible. How pathetic, I thought. Going all this way to buy some inhalants. And then this happens.
The store has fucking changed ownership. They don’t know what bubls are. I find myself explaining to a woman I don’t know how bulbs function. This isn’t what people do when they innocently look for products. They don’t explain the physics. I am so clearly a drug user it is ridiculous. I am a little embarassed. Like I should be ashamed. And maybe I am ashamed a bit.
I justify this by writing about it. I am an adult. Today I failed to buy nitrous oxide from a homeware store. That’s pretty pathetic. I know people, my age, that – legally – own homes. I see young people with familiies. People that hate the fact they are parents. And I hate them. I think fuck you. I want your kids. I want to have something that incredible in my life. People are always complaining about kids. How difficult it is to raise them. Fuck you. That’s what I say. Fuck you for having what I don’t.
I have a low sperm count. Probably a combination of genetic factors and drugs. I will – most likely – never have my own children. This hurts me more than anything that could ever hurt me. It shattered me when I found out. My wife and I had been secretly trying to conceive, despite the fact that we couldn’t afford to and we weren’t ready for kids. We went to a specialist in the end, and they told me the odds of coneption. It shattered my universe.
When my marriage ended disastorously. I thought how long can I drink for – and blame her. Guilt free inebriation. My marriage was an absolute disaster. When people ask me why I’m so fucked up, I refer to the marriage. I tell them what happened. In the end, they applaud me for not going completely insane. It’s no wonder you drink, they say. I would too.
That’s why I fucked my marriage. I orchestrate disaters in order to overcome how much I care about myself. There has to be a reason for my alcholism. In the absence of a reason, I will invent one.
People tell me I’m a good person. I’m not a good person. I hate humanity because I hate myself and I am convinced – I have to be – that everyone is as horrible as I am. When I help people, I do it so I can tell people how amazing I am. I want people to suffer, because I suffer and I deserve to suffer. They deserve to suffer too. You all do. You are shit. You are vain and self-centered. You don’t really care about the world. None of us do. It’s not our nature to care about anything other than ourselves.
It is becoming difficult to type. Good trip reports, you have to sacrifice the drugs a bit for the report. And, right now, I couldn’t give a fuck. I’m trying to care. Trying to find a reason not to open this beer. It will push me over the edge. Which is where I want to go. I’ve missed it, being totally miserably and insanely fucked up – damn the consequences. It’s nice being an alcoholic. All the rest of your poor suckers never truly understand the true magnificence of alcohol.
Drinking as an exercise in reverse evolution. It is about letting go, about being depraved and unforgiveable. It is about not caring. And I don’t. I don’t give a fuck, and it’s amazing.
+6:00
When you smoke a bong, if you don’t inhale the chamber it goes to waste. A lot of bong-smoked material does. This isn’t an issue with vaporizors. It is, actually, in another way. When you vaporize a third of a gram into a couple of – tailor made – plastic vacuum packs, you have to inhale it. Even if you’re so fucked up you don’t know what inhale means. I purposely overlad my vaoprizer because I know I’ll get to a point where – natuarlly, it makes no sense to keep going. That’s something I like about vaporizers. When you load up four bags, there’s no quitting until they’re empty. That’s the way it’s always been for me. I don’t let shit go to waste.
I take a deep breath from the bag of vapor. It fucking kills me. I can no longer see letters on the screen. Just shapes. I am forcing myself to stay awake despite the alcohol and the drugs telling me to go to sleep. I smoke a cigarette. Marijauana is stronger than psilocybin. In sufficient quantities, it is a stronger trip.
+6:47
I keep drinking. There are two beers left in the six pack. That will not be enough. I am consciously aware of the fact that there is never enough. I’m happy to push the limits as long as I can. If I’m physically capable of having another drink then I will have another drink. Not because I’m an an alcoholic. I don’t believe in alcoholism. I treat drinking like a climber treats a mountain. There is some unreachable peak that will satisfy me. So I keep climbing.
+6:57
My trip reports often go off on tangents. I am aware of this. I write how I am feeling and what I am thinking. I try not to focus too much on observing the trip. I document the trip as it happens rather than how I see it play out. I used to really like Howard Stern, when I was an adolescent. He filled a niche. An adult teenager. I didn’t have to grow up when I listened to Stern. Most of the time, radio peronalities are just filler between updates. Six times an hour they have to remove themselves and tell everybody what time it is and whether or not it’s going to rain.
+7:03
It’s plus seven hours and three muntes; there are stormy clouds on the horizon. Over to Steve with the news. Earlier today a patron of BWS took a handful of cash, and bought a trolley full of alcohol for a minor. That patron was me. I was waiting for the bus, drinking a beer. This pimple clad teenager came up to me and asked me if I could buy him some booze. There was no moral question. Of course I would buy him some booze. The only issue was whether or not I had time to finish my beer – and buy him alcohol – before the bus arrived. Turned out to be okay.
This fifty year old guy saw me drinking a bottle Carlton Draugh, ducked into the bottle shop, and started drinking his own. The pimple clad teenager pulled out one of the cans I bought for him and cracked it open. Eighty percent of the people wiaitng for the bus were drinking.
As soon as I tasted the beer, I felt the hatred sink into me. Alcohol makes me angry. I know this. I have known it for a long time. The thing is, I like being angry. There’s nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor and totally not giving a shit. Consideation is over rated.
+7:24
It’s plus seven hours and twenty-four minutes. When we make observations about other people, we’re making observations about ourselves. Individually, our observations might illuminate their subject matter, but – collectively – they say more about us. People externalize thoughts. I hate fat people because I used to be fat, and I hate myself; I hate the human race, because I am human.
+7:28
It’s seven plus hours and twenty-eight minutes; eighty-seven percent chance of rain.
There’s no such thing as a selfless act. When you do something for someone, you inflate your ego. Because your’e a good person, and you know it. Ego is a difficult thing to overcome; because overcoming your ego is an accomplishment, and accompishments feed your ego. It’s like trying to stay awake, while youre asleep. The trick is oblivion. My brother came over earlier. He doesn’t like it when I drink, because I dirnk for oblivion. He drinks for the horizon. He doesn’t undersand the need to be upside down and inside out because he has never let himself loose shape.
I tell my family: I’m going sober. My brother, he sees me, surrounded by empty beer cans rambling sweet nonsense, and he doesn’t get that I’m okay. He’s worried about me, because I’m an alcoholic. Because this is a relapse. I have two brohters. One of them drinks like me. The other one, the one that visited me tonight, drinks every day – but he drinks within moderation.
I’ve always been a binger. I love losing myself in a drug. Doesn’t matter what the drug is. I just like fucking losing myself. Oblivion is a wonderful destination. People pay insane amounts of money to stay in five star hotels, and they tell themselves it was worth it. The beaches, they say. The air, they say. Because they’re afriad of oblivion. And people settle for what they can get.
I want what I cannot get. I will always want what I cannot have. I will not settle for tipsy. I will not settle for being a little bit high. My high is sky fucking high. It always has been, and it always will be. I like my unobtainable goals. If I’m eighty years old, and I’m getting high, my soul will be happy.
Something that scares me about sobriety is that I’ll forget how beautiful drugs are.
Life is so much easier when you’re sober.
I don’t want to take the easy route.
I’m happy to vomit. I’m happy to be paranoid. I’m happy to have bad trips and full-blown psychotic episodes. It’s worth it; drugs are fantastic.
+7:48
It’s plus seven hours and forty-eight minutes; ForEverAfter opens his ninth beer.
It’s been five weeks since I’ve had a beer; five weeks since I’ve been stoned. I have run out of cigarettes. I scam a handful from my brother. I’ve been smoking them, forcing myself to appreciate something that soon I will not have. It’s one of the major problems with qutting. You always tell yourself, “One last binge.” I know I can’t keep drinking, so I chain smoke cigarettes and I drink until I am sick. Tomorrow is another day.
+7:58
At the tram stop there was this young parent – with a couple of missing teeth – making a big spectacle of being a young father. I sat down beside his young daughter. He tried to take up the whole seat by parking the pram adjacent. So I made a big fucking spectacle of sitting down on one of the seats he’d reserved for his daughter – who does not sit on seats.
I like seeing young parents on public transport. You don’t need a car to be a good dad. But, a lot of the time, they don’t realize that. This guy he was clearly unhappy with his lot in life. I see a lot of self-conscious parents on public transport. They look at me like I’m judging them, for not being able to afford a car. Really, I am judging them for prioritizing their name over the pscyhological well being of their children. They shouldn’t be thinking about whether or not they are good parent; they should just be one. I see so many young mothers with this expression on their face like their life is over. They look at me like I get it. Because they’re so young and beautiful, I should instantly recognize the fact that their children are tumours. But, I don’t. I envy them. They don’t know wha tthey have.
My sperm count is too low for me to count on having children. I would love to have a son or a daughter. That would be incredible. They wouldm’t be a tumour. They would be the most important and magnificent thing in my entire life. Parenthood is amazing. My childhood was beautiful. I can’t imagine compromising those early years because I’m bitter. These young miserable parents, I don’t have much empathy for them; I want what they have.
+8:08
It’s plus eight hours and eight mintues; a hundred percent chance of misery.
It’s, kind of, the problem with oblivion. You never get there. I will keep drinking and smoking. I will keep chasing that place that doesn’t exist. I have less than half a beer. So I started chopping up some bud. Once the beer is done, though, I’ll give up on oblivion; l I can’t get there without more booze and the shops are closed.
+8:30
Motherfucker. I realize I am on the tram line of an allnight bottle shop. Oblivion is not dead yet. I swallow three gel caps, containing approximately 1.5 grams dried mushrooms.
+9:30
I arrive at the bottle shop and purchase a fifth of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. I sit down at the tram stop and start drinking from the bottle, swallowing as much as I can with each gulp. I drink a quarter of the bottle.
+10:30
I am lost, somewhere in suburbia. I am blind drunk. Tripping off my head. The mushrooms increase my capacity for drunkedness. I should have passed out already, but I can function on some level thanks to the fungi. I have no idea where I am and I have no memory of the past hour. I get that feeling, that everything is about to go wrong. Like, I’m about to be arrested. So I flag down a taxi. I ramble on like a lunatic to the taxi driver. He is amused.
I tell him to stop at McDonald’s on the way home. I eat a burger. It is the first meat I have consumed in five weeks. When I get home I chain smoke cigarettes, not because I want to but because I can. I am so drunk that I cannot log in to bluelight. I can’t remember my password.
+11:00
I realize I don’t have the whiskey. Somewhere in between the tram stop and the taxi, it disappeared. Fifty dollars, down the drain. But I’m glad. I don’t want to drink a bottle of whiskey. If I hadn’t lost it, I would’ve ended up vomitting all over my house. I suspect that I lost it on purpose.
+20:00
I wake up. I am late for work. I call in sick. There is no way I can go to work in this state. The hangover is horrible. Not the worst hangover I’ve ever experienced, but still – horrible. I go to the tram stop and smoke a cigarette. The cigarette tastes horrible. Dry foul smoke. I put it out after a couple of drags and put the packet down on the seat. When the tram arrives, this little asian girl tells me I forgot my smokes. I tell her, they aren’t mine. I get off the tram and go to McDonalds. It is difficult to eat. I have to be careful that I don’t induce vomitting. I can’t eat too much.
Back home, my house stinks of tobacco. There are cigarette butts and empty beer cans everywhere. Makes me sick looking at them, but I lack the energy to clean up. I don’t ever want to drink again. It’d be easier if I could just accept the fact that I’m an alcoholic. But I’m not going to take the easy way out. I’m not an alcoholic. I refuse to accept that label. I am someone who should never drink alcohol. Oblivion and me, we’re not compatible.
+20:07
It’s plus twenty hours and seven minutes; the sun is shining in my eyes, I am full of shame and regret, trying hard not to empty the contents of my stomach.
+20:08
It’s plus twenty hours and eight minutes.
I need to get stoned.
The relapse. It was bound to happen eventually. Prior to this trip report, I haven't had a drink or a smoke for five weeks. Five long fucking weeks. I've been so good. Problem is, the longer I am good the more I have to compensate by fucking up. Being sober for five weeks gives me an excuse to go nuts.
The sky is overcast.
0:00
I take 4 gel caps, containing approximately 2.1 grams of dried mushrooms.
+0:15
I decide, fuck it, I might as well go all out today. I deserve a big crazy trip. So I take another 4 gel caps, making the total dose approximately 4.2 grams of dried mushrooms, vaporize 0.2 grams of weed, and jump on the tram to go get some nitrous bulbs.
+0:55
I’m extremely stoned. It takes me half an hour to find the keys. I understand why I like being stoned so much. It’s the only time when I don’t have a thousand thoughts racing around in my head. It doesn’t stupify me, it reminds me that there is no need to stress so much. Everybody is so concerned about their responsibilities. Failing to meet our self expectations, we curse ourselves. But none of that shit really matters. The events of this material life are like the events in a dream. It doesn’t matter how successful you are or how unsuccessful you are. Because, either way, you wake up and it’s all over. I’ve been having lucid dreams. More often than not they are fleeting. Moments of awareness prior to waking up. But sometimes, I can prevent myself from waking up. The trick is to not recognize that you are dreaming, without becoming fully aware of what that actually means.
I have had a recurring dream my entire life. It starts off with me running. I’m not running away from anything. I am not afraid. I am just running. Faster and faster. The distance between steps growing steadily until it becomes unbelievable. I am leaping from foot to foot, jumping hundreds of metres with each step. The same thoughts always go through my head.
“How could I have never noticed this before? My entire life, I’ve been able to fly.”
Then I realize, “This is a dream,” and – most of the time – I wake up. The dream world transitions into the waking world. In between, I often see images of reality mixed with images from the dream. In those few seconds, I am both awake and asleep.
It is difficult to maintain this contradiction. Simply by knowing that I am asleep causes me to wake up. The only way to stay asleep, while transitioning into a lucid dream, is to simultaneously realize not only that you are dreaming – but, also, that you are not. The world of the lucid dream must be convincing if you are to exist within it. It must exist as a real place, but not too real. And as a dream, without being too-dream like. Lucid dreaming is like being stoned. I am neither here nor there.
This feels like a dream. I have this lingering thought, that I’m not really here. As if I’m in that moment just before the waves break – and I’m about to wake up.
+3:00
I walk into the homewware store, fucked off my head. I figure, it doesn’t matter. They know me. I’ll be quick. To quick to answer questions. I have a whole back story worked out anyway. I’m a caterer, trying to start a new business. But everything is wrong. All the equipment has been moved around. Instead of bulbs, there’s a fucking saucepan. It totally throws me of. I start to freak out a little bit.
The storeperson, she say, “Can I help you?” like she’s already pushed the silent alarm.
I tell her I’m looking for cream bulbs. I say it, slurred. I am clearly drunk and on a lot of drugs.
I start explaining what cream bulbs are. Little metallic cannisters. I don’t say they are full of nitrous oxide. That is apparent. I am a huffer. I huff gases. I’m clearly off my head. My breath stinks of alcohol. She tells me the store has changed hands; the product I am referring to. They no longer sell it. She repeats the words “Cream bulbs” three or four times like I just stabbed her baby sister in the vagina with my pointy cock. I almost fall into a display on my way out.
So they changed ownership. Well that’s just fucking typical. Taking a tram and a bus to buy a hundred and fifty cannisters of nitrous oxide. That was my plan for the day. I’m thirty years old. My plan for the day was – basically - to get as fucked up as possible. How pathetic, I thought. Going all this way to buy some inhalants. And then this happens.
The store has fucking changed ownership. They don’t know what bubls are. I find myself explaining to a woman I don’t know how bulbs function. This isn’t what people do when they innocently look for products. They don’t explain the physics. I am so clearly a drug user it is ridiculous. I am a little embarassed. Like I should be ashamed. And maybe I am ashamed a bit.
I justify this by writing about it. I am an adult. Today I failed to buy nitrous oxide from a homeware store. That’s pretty pathetic. I know people, my age, that – legally – own homes. I see young people with familiies. People that hate the fact they are parents. And I hate them. I think fuck you. I want your kids. I want to have something that incredible in my life. People are always complaining about kids. How difficult it is to raise them. Fuck you. That’s what I say. Fuck you for having what I don’t.
I have a low sperm count. Probably a combination of genetic factors and drugs. I will – most likely – never have my own children. This hurts me more than anything that could ever hurt me. It shattered me when I found out. My wife and I had been secretly trying to conceive, despite the fact that we couldn’t afford to and we weren’t ready for kids. We went to a specialist in the end, and they told me the odds of coneption. It shattered my universe.
When my marriage ended disastorously. I thought how long can I drink for – and blame her. Guilt free inebriation. My marriage was an absolute disaster. When people ask me why I’m so fucked up, I refer to the marriage. I tell them what happened. In the end, they applaud me for not going completely insane. It’s no wonder you drink, they say. I would too.
That’s why I fucked my marriage. I orchestrate disaters in order to overcome how much I care about myself. There has to be a reason for my alcholism. In the absence of a reason, I will invent one.
People tell me I’m a good person. I’m not a good person. I hate humanity because I hate myself and I am convinced – I have to be – that everyone is as horrible as I am. When I help people, I do it so I can tell people how amazing I am. I want people to suffer, because I suffer and I deserve to suffer. They deserve to suffer too. You all do. You are shit. You are vain and self-centered. You don’t really care about the world. None of us do. It’s not our nature to care about anything other than ourselves.
It is becoming difficult to type. Good trip reports, you have to sacrifice the drugs a bit for the report. And, right now, I couldn’t give a fuck. I’m trying to care. Trying to find a reason not to open this beer. It will push me over the edge. Which is where I want to go. I’ve missed it, being totally miserably and insanely fucked up – damn the consequences. It’s nice being an alcoholic. All the rest of your poor suckers never truly understand the true magnificence of alcohol.
Drinking as an exercise in reverse evolution. It is about letting go, about being depraved and unforgiveable. It is about not caring. And I don’t. I don’t give a fuck, and it’s amazing.
+6:00
When you smoke a bong, if you don’t inhale the chamber it goes to waste. A lot of bong-smoked material does. This isn’t an issue with vaporizors. It is, actually, in another way. When you vaporize a third of a gram into a couple of – tailor made – plastic vacuum packs, you have to inhale it. Even if you’re so fucked up you don’t know what inhale means. I purposely overlad my vaoprizer because I know I’ll get to a point where – natuarlly, it makes no sense to keep going. That’s something I like about vaporizers. When you load up four bags, there’s no quitting until they’re empty. That’s the way it’s always been for me. I don’t let shit go to waste.
I take a deep breath from the bag of vapor. It fucking kills me. I can no longer see letters on the screen. Just shapes. I am forcing myself to stay awake despite the alcohol and the drugs telling me to go to sleep. I smoke a cigarette. Marijauana is stronger than psilocybin. In sufficient quantities, it is a stronger trip.
+6:47
I keep drinking. There are two beers left in the six pack. That will not be enough. I am consciously aware of the fact that there is never enough. I’m happy to push the limits as long as I can. If I’m physically capable of having another drink then I will have another drink. Not because I’m an an alcoholic. I don’t believe in alcoholism. I treat drinking like a climber treats a mountain. There is some unreachable peak that will satisfy me. So I keep climbing.
+6:57
My trip reports often go off on tangents. I am aware of this. I write how I am feeling and what I am thinking. I try not to focus too much on observing the trip. I document the trip as it happens rather than how I see it play out. I used to really like Howard Stern, when I was an adolescent. He filled a niche. An adult teenager. I didn’t have to grow up when I listened to Stern. Most of the time, radio peronalities are just filler between updates. Six times an hour they have to remove themselves and tell everybody what time it is and whether or not it’s going to rain.
+7:03
It’s plus seven hours and three muntes; there are stormy clouds on the horizon. Over to Steve with the news. Earlier today a patron of BWS took a handful of cash, and bought a trolley full of alcohol for a minor. That patron was me. I was waiting for the bus, drinking a beer. This pimple clad teenager came up to me and asked me if I could buy him some booze. There was no moral question. Of course I would buy him some booze. The only issue was whether or not I had time to finish my beer – and buy him alcohol – before the bus arrived. Turned out to be okay.
This fifty year old guy saw me drinking a bottle Carlton Draugh, ducked into the bottle shop, and started drinking his own. The pimple clad teenager pulled out one of the cans I bought for him and cracked it open. Eighty percent of the people wiaitng for the bus were drinking.
As soon as I tasted the beer, I felt the hatred sink into me. Alcohol makes me angry. I know this. I have known it for a long time. The thing is, I like being angry. There’s nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor and totally not giving a shit. Consideation is over rated.
+7:24
It’s plus seven hours and twenty-four minutes. When we make observations about other people, we’re making observations about ourselves. Individually, our observations might illuminate their subject matter, but – collectively – they say more about us. People externalize thoughts. I hate fat people because I used to be fat, and I hate myself; I hate the human race, because I am human.
+7:28
It’s seven plus hours and twenty-eight minutes; eighty-seven percent chance of rain.
There’s no such thing as a selfless act. When you do something for someone, you inflate your ego. Because your’e a good person, and you know it. Ego is a difficult thing to overcome; because overcoming your ego is an accomplishment, and accompishments feed your ego. It’s like trying to stay awake, while youre asleep. The trick is oblivion. My brother came over earlier. He doesn’t like it when I drink, because I dirnk for oblivion. He drinks for the horizon. He doesn’t undersand the need to be upside down and inside out because he has never let himself loose shape.
I tell my family: I’m going sober. My brother, he sees me, surrounded by empty beer cans rambling sweet nonsense, and he doesn’t get that I’m okay. He’s worried about me, because I’m an alcoholic. Because this is a relapse. I have two brohters. One of them drinks like me. The other one, the one that visited me tonight, drinks every day – but he drinks within moderation.
I’ve always been a binger. I love losing myself in a drug. Doesn’t matter what the drug is. I just like fucking losing myself. Oblivion is a wonderful destination. People pay insane amounts of money to stay in five star hotels, and they tell themselves it was worth it. The beaches, they say. The air, they say. Because they’re afriad of oblivion. And people settle for what they can get.
I want what I cannot get. I will always want what I cannot have. I will not settle for tipsy. I will not settle for being a little bit high. My high is sky fucking high. It always has been, and it always will be. I like my unobtainable goals. If I’m eighty years old, and I’m getting high, my soul will be happy.
Something that scares me about sobriety is that I’ll forget how beautiful drugs are.
Life is so much easier when you’re sober.
I don’t want to take the easy route.
I’m happy to vomit. I’m happy to be paranoid. I’m happy to have bad trips and full-blown psychotic episodes. It’s worth it; drugs are fantastic.
+7:48
It’s plus seven hours and forty-eight minutes; ForEverAfter opens his ninth beer.
It’s been five weeks since I’ve had a beer; five weeks since I’ve been stoned. I have run out of cigarettes. I scam a handful from my brother. I’ve been smoking them, forcing myself to appreciate something that soon I will not have. It’s one of the major problems with qutting. You always tell yourself, “One last binge.” I know I can’t keep drinking, so I chain smoke cigarettes and I drink until I am sick. Tomorrow is another day.
+7:58
At the tram stop there was this young parent – with a couple of missing teeth – making a big spectacle of being a young father. I sat down beside his young daughter. He tried to take up the whole seat by parking the pram adjacent. So I made a big fucking spectacle of sitting down on one of the seats he’d reserved for his daughter – who does not sit on seats.
I like seeing young parents on public transport. You don’t need a car to be a good dad. But, a lot of the time, they don’t realize that. This guy he was clearly unhappy with his lot in life. I see a lot of self-conscious parents on public transport. They look at me like I’m judging them, for not being able to afford a car. Really, I am judging them for prioritizing their name over the pscyhological well being of their children. They shouldn’t be thinking about whether or not they are good parent; they should just be one. I see so many young mothers with this expression on their face like their life is over. They look at me like I get it. Because they’re so young and beautiful, I should instantly recognize the fact that their children are tumours. But, I don’t. I envy them. They don’t know wha tthey have.
My sperm count is too low for me to count on having children. I would love to have a son or a daughter. That would be incredible. They wouldm’t be a tumour. They would be the most important and magnificent thing in my entire life. Parenthood is amazing. My childhood was beautiful. I can’t imagine compromising those early years because I’m bitter. These young miserable parents, I don’t have much empathy for them; I want what they have.
+8:08
It’s plus eight hours and eight mintues; a hundred percent chance of misery.
It’s, kind of, the problem with oblivion. You never get there. I will keep drinking and smoking. I will keep chasing that place that doesn’t exist. I have less than half a beer. So I started chopping up some bud. Once the beer is done, though, I’ll give up on oblivion; l I can’t get there without more booze and the shops are closed.
+8:30
Motherfucker. I realize I am on the tram line of an allnight bottle shop. Oblivion is not dead yet. I swallow three gel caps, containing approximately 1.5 grams dried mushrooms.
+9:30
I arrive at the bottle shop and purchase a fifth of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. I sit down at the tram stop and start drinking from the bottle, swallowing as much as I can with each gulp. I drink a quarter of the bottle.
+10:30
I am lost, somewhere in suburbia. I am blind drunk. Tripping off my head. The mushrooms increase my capacity for drunkedness. I should have passed out already, but I can function on some level thanks to the fungi. I have no idea where I am and I have no memory of the past hour. I get that feeling, that everything is about to go wrong. Like, I’m about to be arrested. So I flag down a taxi. I ramble on like a lunatic to the taxi driver. He is amused.
I tell him to stop at McDonald’s on the way home. I eat a burger. It is the first meat I have consumed in five weeks. When I get home I chain smoke cigarettes, not because I want to but because I can. I am so drunk that I cannot log in to bluelight. I can’t remember my password.
+11:00
I realize I don’t have the whiskey. Somewhere in between the tram stop and the taxi, it disappeared. Fifty dollars, down the drain. But I’m glad. I don’t want to drink a bottle of whiskey. If I hadn’t lost it, I would’ve ended up vomitting all over my house. I suspect that I lost it on purpose.
+20:00
I wake up. I am late for work. I call in sick. There is no way I can go to work in this state. The hangover is horrible. Not the worst hangover I’ve ever experienced, but still – horrible. I go to the tram stop and smoke a cigarette. The cigarette tastes horrible. Dry foul smoke. I put it out after a couple of drags and put the packet down on the seat. When the tram arrives, this little asian girl tells me I forgot my smokes. I tell her, they aren’t mine. I get off the tram and go to McDonalds. It is difficult to eat. I have to be careful that I don’t induce vomitting. I can’t eat too much.
Back home, my house stinks of tobacco. There are cigarette butts and empty beer cans everywhere. Makes me sick looking at them, but I lack the energy to clean up. I don’t ever want to drink again. It’d be easier if I could just accept the fact that I’m an alcoholic. But I’m not going to take the easy way out. I’m not an alcoholic. I refuse to accept that label. I am someone who should never drink alcohol. Oblivion and me, we’re not compatible.
+20:07
It’s plus twenty hours and seven minutes; the sun is shining in my eyes, I am full of shame and regret, trying hard not to empty the contents of my stomach.
+20:08
It’s plus twenty hours and eight minutes.
I need to get stoned.
have a nice day
life does not have to be so hard