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(Methamphetamine, IV ~110 mg / Alcohol ~6 beers) Very Experienced - "I'm tired."


Jan 16, 2012
(Methamphetamine, IV ~110 mg / Alcohol ~6 beers) Very Experienced - "I'm tired."

Junk Mail, Part 1

"I'm tired."
(Methamphetamine ~110mg, beer~1500ml)

I've slept about five hours in the past four days. I should really crash; but, I'm a sucker for a binge.

I went to sleep this morning, for a couple of hours, because the fatigue was starting to compromise my amphetamine buzz. I also hadn't eaten anything, at all, for almost 72 hours; and, I'm not young enough to get away with that any more. Meth takes it's toll; I have been hallucinating heavily for over 24 hours. The combination of sleep-deprivation and good quality crystal, creates this weird optical illusion. I can see the air. But it's not really the air. My depth perception is fucked up to such an extent that objects in the distance appear as if they have spread out in between my pupils and whatever I'm looking at; if I look at the wall, for example, the texture of the paint separates and appears, at various distances, as tiny unstable particles floating in the air. This is something I only get from meth. It is a unique hallucination. Certain objects have more three dimensionality than others.

I suspected earlier that what I was actually witnessing were smells, because I noticed a correlation between the odour intensity of each object and it's three dimensionality. But, that's probably just a bit of psychosis. Last night, I was convinced – when I was peaking from a hit – that I had meth somehow enables me to see more of the visual spectrum; and, the floating objects – although only partially visible – actually existed in some unknowable capacity. Meth makes you crazy; I've experienced full blown episodes of psychosis from long periods of usage. I really shouldn't have purchased half a gram. The quality is so high – it's close to pure – that I'm incapable of using it all, intraveinously, over the course of five days; which means I'm going to have to stop while I still have some left. And I'll feel like shit, and I'll keep thinking, β€œI'll just have a little bit, to counteract the comedown/ withdrawals. Like tonight, I told myself I wasn't going to use.

It is very addictive.

Only have one 27 gauge syringe left, excluding a couple of fresh barrels and half a dozen – or so – removable tips. I've got a bunch of 29 gauge one piece insulin syringes, but it's dangerous to use them this late in the game. A lot of people find 29 to be too small, generally. If you use a 25, and you are properly inside a vein, pulling back the plunger and pushing it in again is easy; even if you're fucked off your head. 29 gauge, on the other hand, is sometimes difficult even if you are inside a vein; because the amount of pressure that you have to put on the plunger in order to pull blood into the barrel, is considerable. And if you're tired, drunk, and otherwise intoxicated – as I currently am – you tend to misjudge things. I do have a bunch of 25 tips for the empty barrels, but they're too big to use when I'm fucked up; there's less room for mistakes in terms of properly entering a vein; it's quite easy to be half in and half out of a vein, especially a small vein, when using a 25, or larger, needle point.

Yesterday – or was it this morning – I was hallucinating so heavily, and my hands were shaking so much, that I accidentally stabbed myself three or four times with the needle without even noticing it. I could hardly see what I was doing. My skin became three dimensional. I felt this sharp pain in arm a couple of times before I realized that I was pricking myself; not a good state to be using intraveinous needles. My veins have sustained a fair amount of damage over past decade; one of the major veins in my right arm – the cephalic – collapsed sometime last year. I need to be careful. That's another reason I had to go to sleep and eat something. Because, now, the hallucinations and the shakes should be managable.

I'm slightly concerned about the state of my mental health; I've been having olfactory and auditory hallucinations a lot recently. I've been hearing voices coming out of electric appliances, even when I just smoke a bit of weed. I have also been developing what my rational mind assures me are just drug-induced psychotic delusions. I'm concerned that I'm going insane. The state of my mental health has been on my mind a lot over the past month. I am suffering from severe depression, which renders me incapable of performing even the most basic tasks. The meth helps, short term, but – in the long term – it's also probably contributing to it.

Have hardly had any weed throughout my little binge. The only thing I've been consuming is beer and meth. I use alcohol to balance out the meth, so I can function at work and at uni; this is not recommended, unless you're a seasoned alcoholic and you have a lot of experience with amphhetamines. If you time it correctly, with the right dose, the addition of alcohol can be a really tool to bring you back down to a fairly normal-functioning level. I use it sparingly. Over the past four days, I've had eight stubbies and two pints at the pub; today, I've had five stubbies. On average, roughly four beers a day; that is all I need.

Been writing a long short story – my best so far – over the past two days. Amphetamines improve my ability to write so much. I write almost directly from my subconscious. The pesky overly-conscious thoughts, and doubts, I tend to have – when I'm sober, or on another drug – are practically non-existant. I don't have to think about what I'm writing. It just flows out at somewhere around 150 words per minute. Then, afterwards, I don't remember a lot of what I wrote – on account of the fact that I'm doing it subconsciously, I suppose. Amphetamines, including psychedelic amphetamines, are – by far – the best drug for creative writing; assuming you are using it more as a creative tool than a recreational drug; assuming, that is, that you know your limits. I should have the first draft of my story – which, I estimate, will end up somewhere in the vicinity of twelve thousand words – done by the weekend. To produce the same work, sober, would take me – maybe – two months.

12:23 am, Day 4

Put 50 units of water into a 27 gauge single-use insulin syringe. I've run out of sterile water, so I take it from running tap water, via the faucet over my bath. It's good meth, so there's no need to use a wheel filter. I wander back into the study, feeling somewhat confused and disoriented – on account of the lack of meth and overabundance of alcohol – and wipe down my spoon, which I rinsed earlier, with a medical swab. I rip open a second swab, to clean the tips of my fingers, before tearing a piece of cotton wool from the centre of a clump that has been sitting there since Saturday. Drop 70 mg of meth into the spoon. This is slightly more than my normal dose: to compensate for the increasing tolerance level; and, because I feel like getting really fucking high. Those of you thinking 70 mg is nothing, I'd say that you're probably shooting garbage. 70 mg of this stuff will last me around 8-12 hours; it is unsually potent, and long-lasting. With weaker gear, I've often had to redose at the 4 or 5 hour mark to keep the energy going.

12:39 am

I'm getting distracted. Need to focus, before I become incapable of administering the needle. I put the tourniquet around my right arm, above the elbow. I leave it loose, for now; it's the type with the little plastic locking mechanism. I look around for a clean piece of material I can use to warm up my veins. There are no towels left, so I grab a handkercheif out of the cupboard and we it with boiling water. I place it, dripping with water, on the inside of my elbow and bend my arm just enough to hold it in place. It is so hot, it almost burns me. I sit down, tighten the tourniquet, and remove the handerchief; then I use a third swab to remove any bacteria from my skin. I feel around for my veins; both of the remaining majors are bulging nicely, but I've used each of them at least once over the past couple of days so I need to move up, slightly, towards my bicep. And, as I said before, the celaphic – my old favorite – is now gone due to overuse. My hands are shaking quite a lot; too much, really, to be doing this sort of thing. I've learnt to hold syringes in a particular way; supporting the back of my hand against my arm, in order to steady myself. Still, though, there is no justification for doing this. The binge has to end; this needs to be my last shot for a couple of days.

I push the needle in. It doesn't hurt, on account of the relatively small gauge. When they take blood, the size of the needle point – meaning, the outside circumference – is often more than twice that of a 27 gauge. When people say they are afraid of needles, or that needles hurt, I figure they mean that they are afraid of big picks; cause, otherwise you're just a pussy. Assuming you don't have an abcess, or hit a nerve, and you have some idea what you're doing, the pain should be almost non-existant. I pull back on the plunger and get blood. Push 25 mls into my vein, then the needle slips a fraction of a milimitre. I pull back again, to check that I'm still in the vein; I get more blood, but there is a bit of pressure – meaning either I'm up against the wall of the vein, or I need to release the tourniquet. I pull out and swap over to the other usable vein in my right arm, which for most people is considered a minor. There's typically two really prominent veins under the elbow, in each arm; for some reason, I have three. This second vein is in a slightly more awkward position, though; it runs on a 45 degree angle. Since there is blood in the barrel, I need to be quick. After approximately two minutes, the blood will start to become solid; in three minutes, it will be too thick to travel through a 27 gauge needle. So I don't waste any time. I slid in, and pull back; get some air, readjust and pull back again; get blood, and empty another twenty mls into my arm. The rush is warm and cozy. I release the tourniquet – letting it fall to the floor – and breathe deep. I pull the needle out of my vein and elevate my arm, applying pressure to the injection sites with the clean side of the handerchief. I stay there for thirty seconds, with my arm above my head and the palm of my hand pressed against the wall. I close my eyes and enjoy the rush. The pattern maker that lives in my brain paints happy colours across the darkness, casting metallic blue lightning bolts before my eyes. I take a series of deep, incredibly satisfying breaths. Everything is beautiful; every pore on my skin; every hair on my head: my body is coursing with euphoric energy. The rush is so nice, that I want to do another shot. A little one. The problem with meth is it's too good. I sit back down and suck up some water from a glass into the syringe, then spray it at the back of my throat; I then wash down the taste of blood and chemicals with what remains of my fifth beer, before rolling my sleeve back up.

My mind is not as clear as I would like it to be, though maybe this is just my way of justifying having another shot. The longer you keep a binge going, the dirtier the high gets; my first hit is always perfect. After five days, it hardly has any positive effects; and, I start to go crazy. I'm not quite there yet; at this stage, the clarity is still okay, but I have to increase my dose, to combat my rapidly increasing tolerance, the beer, and the lack of sleep.

1:18 am

I really want to have another shot; I'm going to, even though I know it's a bad idea. I've been justifying it to myself in numerous ways. One of the more ridiculous justifications is: if I finish up the gear I have remaining before I get to the five day mark, I can avoid the inevitable insanity. It sounds illogical, to take more of a drug that causes psychosis in order to avoid psychotic symptoms developing, but that's what addiction does. You can justify anything if you have the chemical incentive to do so.

I grab a 29 gauge out, and fill it up with water from the bath again. It's fucking difficult to do with such a slight needle, but I don't have any clean glasses or cups or anything so it'll have to do. Takes me a couple of minutes. I've forgotten how much difference there is between 27 and 29. It's been so long since I've had to use a 29. The eye on the needle is, at most, half the size of it's big brother.

I move the cotton out of the way; dump a 20 mg chunk of crystal onto the spoon; add the water; crush it up; and shift the same piece of cotton back into position. I am hallucinating considerably more than I was for the first shot, and my hands are shaking way too much. It's hard to pull the liquid up, through cotton, into the tiny needle. I have a bad feeling about fucking this up. I start feeling a little anxious about the idea; but there's no going back now and, at least, I'm not drunk enough to pin cushion myself and collapse another vein.

I dampen the handkercheif, put it on my other elbow, and tighten the tourniquet; then I swab and slide the needle in. It is more painful than usual, because the veins are getting overused. They need time to heal. Still, it's just a little sting. I'm so high and anxious that I forget about holding the syringe, so that I can steady it against the shakes, so I have to wiggle my hand back down the barrel after it's in. I pull back and get a tiny bit of blood, followed by a bubble. This is the worst thing that can happen; if you just get a bubble, you can simply start again.

Now I have a three minute, maximum, time limit to get it right; which makes me panic. I don't want to lose the shot; I haven't lost one all year. But nothing goes right. I try at a different site, on the wrong side of a track – having run out of room above it. I am getting shakier by the second. I pull back and get air. The vein is probably blocked, upstream by a clot; either that, or I've missed. I pull out. The blood in the barrel is already starting to get solid.

I try once more, and fail. Fucking 29 gauge! Frustrated, I spray the contents of the needle down my throat. Instantly, I decide to give it another go – with a removable 27 needle / barrel-base set up, this time. Before I get set up, I find three unopened 27 gauges. Double fuck! I should have checked properly before I wasted that last shot. Oh well, at least I've got a decent pick.

I mix up my shot, warm up my elbow; swab, and tighten the tourniquet. I use the same vein as the first shot. There is hardly enough room above my track marks to squeeze in without having to go through muscle – and, possibly, hit a nerve. I am careful, this time; and more confident, due to the gauge. I slip in. Again, it hurts more than usual due to overuse. I pull back and get blood. I empty half of it into my vein and slip again slightly as I stop to check that I'm still in position; I get air.

I don't panic. I swap over to the other vein, and quickly empty the rest of the syringe.

Then, I wipe down my inner elbows with the handkercheif and elevate my arm; fill the syringe with water and shoot it back down my throat; have a big swig of my VB; and, finally, go brush my teeth. I am rushing pretty fucking hard now. Everything feels amazing. Brushing my teeth is pure bliss. I am rushing slightly more than I had intended. My thoughts are going too fast for me to be able to write properly. But, that will pass soon enough.

My beer is flat. I crack open another one, and discover a cigarette butt on my way back to my desk. Usually when I take meth, I chain smoke cigarettes; over the course of this binge, I have had less than five. I'm quitting, while taking amphetamines, which is not a particularly good idea; haven't had any tobacco for almost two days now. I attribute the anxiety and the shakes, partly to my nicotine withdrawals. And, since I'm rushing so hard, it's a huge relief to find something to smoke. I break it up onto a little pile of weed, and reroll it into a joint. Have only had one joint in the past four days, too. The tobacco and the weed provide some much needed relief.

What I should have done, instead of redosing meth, is gotten really stoned and drunk and gone to sleep. That would have been the sensible move. This always happens with meth; I keep going, even when I don't want to. I tell myself that once the drugs kick in, I won't care about anything. But I do. The high is compromised by my lack of sleep, on top of the dehyrdation and severe malnutrition.

5:30 am

The larger of the remaining veins in my right arm is hurting; I'm worried about potentially collapsing it. There is small lump, probably a clot, in the vein near where it goes under my forearm muscle; below that, I'm struggling to find the vein. I even used a tourniquet to try and locate it. I found what I think might be it, but I'm not convinced. It's probably paranoia. I don't think it has collapsed; but, it's not worth the risk. I have quite a bit of vascular damage already. My veins have shrunk considerably over the years, and they are no longer as straight as they once were. If I'm going to continue to IV, I need to give my veins time to recover between each shot; or, eventually, I will run out of usable veins on my inner elbow.

I discovered something weird when I was poking around, looking for the vein with my fingertip. The celaphic on my right arm is back, somehow. It collapsed, I am certain of that. I tried to find it so many times; and the blue line of the vein visibly disappeared, before being promptly replaced by another one. Now, I can feel it again. It's faint, but it's in the exact same place it used to be. It's possible that, if I did indeed just collapse the other one, that the celaphic – which never totally collapsed, but rather shrank until I could no longer feel it – is expanding, in order to compensate for this potential collapse and deliver more blood to my arm.

No, I can feel both of them; so, I guess – maybe – they're both partially collapsed. I'm a fucking idiot. If I used syringes responsibly, this would never have happened. I seriously need to re-evaluate my approach to meth. I've managed to get alcohol under control. For a long time I told myself I was an alcoholic, but – really – there's no such thing. I just used the term as an excuse for my lack of will control, and my poor decision making. Same thing goes for meth. I blame the addictive properties of the drug, as if I am powerless against them; but, honestly, I've never really tried to keep it in control. I don't do this because I am incapable of doing it any other way; I do it, because I tell myself that I am incapable. The stigma that methamphetamines has, in terms of it's addictive properties, is significant enough to facilitate my self-deception.

I believe that the majority of addiction problems exist, largely, because we believe they exist. Take cigarettes, for example; people often start smoking in high school and never really take a break until they're in their mid twenties or thirties. Then, they think, β€œFuck. I'd better quit before I get cancer.” But, by that time, the idea of how difficult quitting is has been re-enforced so many times that they are terrified; so terrified, that a lot of people don't ever really try.

There is no classes of recreationally-used substances more addictive than amphetamines and opiates; I haven't made my mind up as to which is more addictive of the two. I think it depends on the person, and wether or not they are more inclined to uppers or downers. I guess I like meth more than I like heroin, so maybe that makes the withdrawals more difficult. But, then, I can take opiates every day indefinitely without going crazy or starving; which means that I tend to use opiates for weeks on end, and – therefore – develop a stronger physical dependency. My point is, they're pretty close. They're are the most addictive recreational drugs on the planet, and I have kept them under control, relatively, for a decade and a half. People say things like, β€œAs soon as you have your first hit, you're addicted for life,” which is utter horseshit. I was always afraid of opiates because of the stigma, but there is nothing to be afraid of if they're used in moderation.

It's easy to not try. I've said many times that I β€œcan't” quit smoking marijuana, for example; but, typically, I don't say that after making a genuine effort. It's not that difficult.

I used to drink like a fish. Just one month ago, I was drinking straight out of a bottle of bourbon before breakfast. I'd been convinced for some time, that I was an alcoholic. I never tried to quit. I didn't even try to cut down. I wanted to believe that I couldn't help myself; because having an β€œaddictive” personality enables me to justify abusing the fuck out of drugs, and out of my own body. On some not-quite-conscious level, I've always known this. There is no such thing as an β€œaddictive” personality; there are only strong people and weak people. And, I'm not weak.

I went to see a counsellor at university last week, to get a certificate qualifying me for special consideration; because I've been too depressed, and have been taking too many drugs, to study. I find it weird how being addicted to illegal drugs is, legally, considered a valid excuse for various things. Same as alcoholism; if you prove that you're an alcoholic, you can excuse yourself from an enormous amount of – otherwise unavoidable – consequences. Many crimes that are the result of the excessive consumption of alcohol, can be negated – or significantly reduced – if you simply admit that you don't have any will power. The diagnosis of addictive personality disorder is basically the honour system; if you tell your doctor that you're an alcoholic, you are one. Kind of like how if you tell yourself you don't have the power to resist meth.

Obviously I can quit. I've done it over fifty times. And, if I can quit, then I can moderate. Alcoholics will tell you that, if they have alcohol in the house, they will drink it; which is what I used to think about booze, and – also – what I said about meth earlier. They are the only two drugs in the world, that I believe I have a serious problem with.

Meth and alcohol.

Most people have a drug, or two, that they take. When I went to the counsellor – who was about as competant as a high school counsellor – he asked me if I was taking any recreational drugs.

β€œYes,” I replied. β€œRecently I've been taking: marijuana, alcohol, dextromethorphan, morphine, codeine, LSA, LSD, scopolamine, atropine, psilocybin-containing mushrooms, muscimol-containing mushrooms, amphetamines and methamphetamines.”

He smiled, condescendingly, and said, β€œWhat drugs do you regularly take?”

I replied, β€œmarijuana, alcohol, dextromethorphan, morphine, codeine, LSA, LSD, scopolamine, atropine, psilocybin-containing mushrooms, muscimol-containing mushrooms, amphetamines and methamphetamines.”

He didn't believe me; I think he thought I was just showing off. Fucking incompetent counsellor. I told him, β€œI've been cycling through these drugs, in order to avoid getting seriously addicted to any of them.” Which is actually a really effective way of dealing with addiction; I thought it was to begin with, anyway. Theoretically, it was a pretty sound idea. Unfortunately, my suspicions about the possible dangers of cycling, were eventually confirmed.

It has been driving me crazy. Doing dissociatives one day, followed by opiates the next; then psilocybin, and datura; LSD, and – finally – marijuana: it forces you to transition too rapidly from one personality to the other. You don't have time to adjust. When I take LSD all the time, my – subconscious – mind and my body become familiar with the drug, and I'm able to function. Cycling, on a daily basis, means that you never grow accustomed to any one drug. Which means, if you get high on a daily basis, you become non-functional. I'm not sure, but I think cycling contributed considerably to my depression; it certainly didn't help.

And I'm glad that experiment failed, because I was just trying to cheat the system. I was trying to moderate each drug, individually, rather than moderating how often I'm getting high. If I discovered a way to get high every day without consequences, then I'd probably never cut down on my intake. Thank God it's impossible. I don't want to be high every day, or every second day for that matter. I take way too many drugs. A lot of you guys, who frequent this forum, do too; I've read your trip reports and your contributions to various drug-specific threads.

I am seriously concerned, that I have cancer or something. I used to tell people that I was a hypochondriac, but – really – it's because I've put so much garbage into my body: research chemicals; dissociatives; alcohol; cannabinoids; amphetamines; inhalants; cigarettes; benzos; opiates; and, various pharmaceutical drugs. I'm sure there are more classes of drugs that I can't think of, too. My head is pretty fucked up from the lack of sleep and the booze. The 110 mg of meth I consumed is already starting to show signs of loss. I'm so tired that I can feel the fatigue through the amphetamines. Aside from the drugs, and the alcohol, I haven't been taking care of myself for well over a decade; by this, I mean I have been intoxicating myself – and starving myself – with no consideration for my physical health.

There haven't been any clean dishes in the house for three months now; I shoved them all, covered with food and mould, into my kitchen cupboard – because the landlady was coming round for a periodic inspection. Then, I just left them there; and started eating take-out every day: because I couldn't be bothered getting them back down and cleaning them. My house is really fucked up. I don't look after it, either.

I said before that I've been experiencing olfactory hallucinations, because there's this smell which I can't seem to locate. I looked around the house, and found many disgusting items, including a glass next to my computer a quarter full of congealed poppy seed tea, that had grown two inches of yellow mould. It smelt absolutely disgusting, yet it's been sitting there, three feet from my head, for – maybe – as much as three weeks. And the dishes in the cupboard; I haven't even looked at them since I put them up there, but I remember there was a whole bunch of uneaten food and jars full of old, discarded, poppy seeds. So I've been breathing that in, as well. But what I've been smelling today, came from neither of these locations. I've smelt it in every room at the house. Sometimes it was there, and sometimes it wasn't. Usually, I can smells to their source; I'm particularly good at doing this, because – unfortunately – I've been letting shit decay inside my house for as long as I moved out from my folks, ten years ago. And before that, I'd let shit decay in my locker at school; or, if I could get away with it, in my room. I've never been able to not locate an actual smell before, so I just put it down to a hallucination. But, I just worked it out. It's my favorite cat, the girl; my happy little feline feminine friend: she stinks real bad. And that's my fault; I don't take care of her, either. I've never shampooed my cats, or given them a bath; they, more often than not, have fleas; and sometimes I go a couple of days without feeding them. I get particularly neglectful of my pets on certain drugs; and meth is one of those drugs.

I used to hate myself for the state of my life; until, recently, I realized the cause of all this behavoir. I am seriously depressed; more so than most people will ever experience in their lives. When it's bad, it's really bad; sometimes I can hardly move. The past two months have been the worst. It, the depression, has developed a number physical symptoms; most significantly psychomotor retardation. I used to deny the fact that I was depressed, because I didn't want to be. For some time, I have insisted that there is no such thing as depression. And I believe my own bullshit: that depression was a non-existent self-diagnosed illness like alcoholism; and the only reason people said they were depressed was to justify themselves. β€œI don't look after myself because I'm lazy, not because I'm depressed.” It quickly became a viscious cycle. My depression demotivated me towards living a healthy life, and – since I denied psychiatry – I interpreted what was in reality just a symptom of my depression as a personal failure; which, in turn, depressed me; ad infinitum. I've been depressed since I was a little kid, but it's been getting worse all these years. Now that it's gotten to the point where I can't function as a man, I have to face it; I have to acknowledge it. And, I have to admit the major cause of the questionable state of my mental health – which is, drug use.

I've known this, I suppose, and denied it, for half of my life. When I'm sober, I'm much happier. The depression that's been there since I was a kid, has pretty much gone now; I took a five week break from everything some months back, and I had no issues – excluding the first week, during the stronger withdrawal symptoms – until, I returned to being an addict with a death wish. Three or four days after I started using drugs again, the depression returned.

This counsellor I went to see, the one who smirked at me and didn't treat me with a lot of respect, he probably can't comprehend why drug addictions are recognized as a legitimate excuse either. I don't know how many students he's got coming in there every week, demanding special consideration due to the consequences of their own actions. It would probably piss me off, as well, after a while. I mean, do I deserve to receive help that I don't need? Should years of alcoholism and drug-addiction, be on par, as an excuse, with problems are not self-inflicted like disabilities and other health related issues. And the depression that arises from these self-inflicted β€œaddictive disorders”, should it be on par with depression that results from being phsyically or psychologically abused?

I guess, maybe, that's why I denied that I was depressed; because, I knew, deep down, that it was my own fault. I have less pity for people who suffer from self-inflicted wounds; just like I have less pity for someone who causes an avoidable car accident, through negligence, or because they were drunk. Alcoholics Anonymous teaches people that they're not responsible for their actions, by defining alcohol addiction as a disease. It's not a disease; and, sometimes, our actions are beyond forgiveness. I've heard some fucked up shit during AA meetings. People are comfortable admitting the deepest darkest things, in a context in which everything is forgiven. I've heard a lot of members say that it feels good to talk about this stuff. Well, of course it fucking does, when you're given a get out of jail free card regardless of your sins. That's why AA, more often than not, appeals to such horrible people. It's not because being horrible is a symptom of the so-called disease. No. It appeals to sinners for the same reason that sinners become born again; because, they have done so many bad things in their lives that they can't live with themselves anymore. They need forgiveness in order to silence their conscience; they need to talk about their horrible mistakes – those terrible things they vowed never to reveal to a soul. They need forgiveness, but most of them do not deserve it.

Some people would argue that it doesn't matter if they deserve it or not; it's better to get them to stop hurting people, however we can. But that's not taking into account one of the major flaws with the AA system, which is: what happens when these people – who no longer feel a sense of personal responsibility for their drunken actions – have a relapse? They still remain convinced that their actions, no matter what those actions are, deserve forgiveness; because it's repeated in meetings, thousands of times over, that alcoholics have no defense against alcohol. So when members relapse, they are capable of doing terrible things without having to take any responsibility for them. Because they believe, when they're drunk, and when they wake up the next morning, that it's not their fault. They can abuse people, and embarrass themselves; they can do whatever they want: and then just blame the booze. Obviously, this is really dangerous.

They might as well tell reformed child rapists, during therapy, that rape is a disease and their despicable actions are nothing more than symptoms; fuck, they might as well tell everybody that everything is beyond our control and none of us are responsible for anything that we do: that way, when a skizophrenic serial killer chops off a woman's head and keeps it in the fridge so he can make love to it, he can do so without feeling conflicted about being a disgusting pile of shit. The child rapist does not deserve this peace of mind; nor does the hardcore alcoholic, who beats his wife; and I'm not sure I deserve special consideration, either. My depression is actually a symptom of my drug use, but I chose to do drugs. Nobody is forcing me to be a junky. I can, and have, stopped – cold turkey – many, many times. I can stop using drugs, at any time; I've proved it to people before, for the sake of proving it to myself. I am not an addict; that implies the drugs have some control over me. No. I'm reckless and irresonspible. I'm immature. I abuse myself, and I make no effort to exercise control. I've often said that I like being addicted to drugs. Now, I realize, that's just gives me the excuse to take them every day. I'm not an addict, and I never have been; the word addict implies that the drug has some sort of hold over me.

Really, I am in control; I abuse the drugs, they do not abuse me. Nothing has any control over me whatsoever. I am not weak, though sometimes I have embraced the idea in order to excuse myself from trying; I am a very strong person. If I want to do something, I can do it. I took a five week break from drugs – including alcohol, cigarettes, sugar and coffee – while simultaneously abstaining from various non-drug β€œaddictions” such as: sex and masturbation; as well as, watching films and television shows. I even stopped listening to music. And, it wasn't difficult.

If I keep taking drugs like this, I'm going to eventually get to a point in which I blame the drugs for fucking up my life – like alcoholics do – and vow to never take any mind altering substances ever again. This happened to both my brothers. They think marijuana is bad for people, because they made no effort to use it resonsibly. They abused it; they failed to moderate their usage; and, they allowed themselves to sit around – stoned, all day – doing nothing. Basically, they fucked the drug up for themselves in the future; the older brother, he fucked all drugs up for himself a long time ago. Since then, he turned from marijuana – and various other drugs – to alcohol; and now, he's doing the same fucking thing with drinking. He's not going to have any intoxicants left by the time he's forty. He'll be one of those jaded ex-users who demonize all – legal and illegal – drugs, rather than just admitting that it wasn't the drugs; and accepting the fact that he fucked up.

Why are some people able to use drugs in moderation, and others aren't? The answer is, as far as I'm concerned, that we're all able to use drugs in moderation. It's more difficult for some people, than others, perhaps, for a whole variety of reasons; but, it's not impossible. People overcome adversity and accomplish extraordinary things in this life. The modern – predominantly western – world is so pampered and priveledged. Our societies make excuses for our laziness; for our abuse of drugs and alcohol; for our self-destructive decisions; even when we hurt other people. Everybody's a victim, now, even the perpetrator of the crime: which, as a theoretical concept, may have some validity; but, in practice, just makes us weak. We are all spoilt by political correctness; by liberal activists, who are apparently content to pioneer for the rights of practically everybody.

I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself; and, I'm sick of making excuses. I am not an addict, or an alcoholic; I do not have a disease or a disorder: and, I don't deserve special treatment. I am not weak; I am in control: and I am quite capable of using drugs responsibly.

People, like me, give drugs a bad name. People look at me, and my lifestyle, and I contribute to their opinions – to the collective opinion – that marijuana and LSD are detremental to society. This is what I mean when I say that I abuse drugs, rather than the other way around; non-neurotoxic mind-altering substances, such as psilocybin, are – prior to consumption – neither good nor bad. They have the potential to be destructive, all drugs do. Heroin can kill you, but so can salt.

The truth is: drugs don't kill people; people kill themselves. When someone overdoses on heroin, or meth: it's not the drugs fault; it's the users fault, for being irresponsible. If proper harm reduction is exercised, and drugs are consumed – as they should be – in moderation, then there should be no potential for overdose. If you are reading this, and you're one of the people out there who use drugs responsibly, I'd like to apologize – sincerely – for contributing, by example, to the general global opinion that the majority of recreational drugs are evil. We, those of us who abuse drugs, often complain that said substances should be legal; as if it's unfair. Yet, they continue to ensure that the substances remain so, by further tarnishing their reputations.

Drugs always start off legal. Then people abuse them, and they become illegal. We are the abusers, hundreds and thousands of years after the fact; we continue to kill ourselves, and fuck up our lives, and we say – when we finally renounce our drug-oriented lifestyles – that, yes, drugs are indeed bad. We say, we were just in denial when we were using; that the drugs confused us, disoriented us. These substances that are illegal because they either have been abused, or have high potential for abuse; yet, we don't make any effort to change the negative public opinion. On the contrary, we contribute to it. Then, we complain that the β€œevil government” makes them illegal.
We insist that we should, what, be allowed to abuse ourselves; that we should be free to do anything we want, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else? This is one of the most common arguments against the drug war; its the β€œAmerican Defense”; our tendency, in spoilt wetsern societies, is – often – to prioritize the importance of absolute freedom, regardless of what the consequences are. Because, in theory, having the freedom to do what you want sounds great.

The β€œAmerican Defense” ensures that, in the US – which is, I believe, the country that holds the record for having the most firearm related murders in the history of the world – everybody can own a gun; because the freedom to do so, is more important than the murders.

You are unlikely to do much damage to a car, if you have an accident while riding a gokart down a major urban road. Although it is a reckless and totally unjustifiable thing to do, it is less likely to hurt someone else then if you drive a normal sized car; the only life you are threatening, is your own. Being granted the freedom to behave in any way you see fit, as long as you don't harm others; that's one of the big arguments towards ending the drug war. So, should we be allowed to drive gokarts down the street, too; or not wear our seatbelts when driving a car?

Isn't it our responsibility as fellow members of this species, to look out for one another? From a non-users perspective, drugs appear to be pretty dangerous. Drugs are illegal because of idiots like me; I am – we are – the cause of the drug war, not the government. We tarnish the reputation of substances that quite often have massive potential; we are not good examples. We don't prove to the world that these drugs should be legalized; we do the opposite. We allow ourselves to become addicted, despite the fact that – if you're careful – developing a habit is totally avoidable. The only thing we report, about drugs, are the negative consequences; you don't hear a lot of people publically declaring their love of heroin. No. The positive aspects of drug use, remain silent. From the governments perspective, we overdose and we go to rehab. From the non-users perspective, drugs appear to ruin lives. When somebody has an overdose, they end up in the hospital and it's recorded statistically; but there are no statistics for positive experiences. We abuse drugs, then we blame them, without ever really trying to responsibly manage our use; and, by doing so, we contribute to the misconception that drugs are more addictive then they actually are. Which makes people believe that they too are incapable of quitting: so the next generation has an excuse to follow the tradition of irresponsible drug use.

Most drug-users I've known, have not used exclusively in moderation; there are more drug abusers than there are users, from my observations. More often than not, prolonged drug use tends to fuck up people's lives. It's not a conspiracy, the war on drugs. The government is just doing their job; it's no different to gambling reform, or any other preventative measure. Experts, in various fields, are trained to study society and humanity. They can't help but notice that gambling and drugs have the potential to be highly destructive. Casinos, like alcohol, have existed for too long to be outlawed altogether. Another argument against the drug war is: alcohol should be illegal; again this is prioritizing theory over the consequences of theory. Alcohol is too well engrained in society for it to – realistically – be declared illegal, without a massive uproar. As for casinos: parents who have serious gambling problems, quite often harm their children in one way or another; and parents who are drug users, are capable of doing the same. When it's convenient, people will often blame their actions on drugs; just like how gambling addicts complain about casinos; how fat people sue McDonald's; and, how I extended all my university deadlines by wearing a nametag that says β€œaddict.” I have no right to complain about what I consider to be an unjust law, while – at the same time – contributing, shamelessly, to the reason it was established in the first place; nobody does. It is a gun owner's responsibility to either use their weapon in a responsible manner. Similarly, the only thing we – as drug users – can do to make a difference, is be responsible.

7:17 am, Day 5

I open another beer, and watch the season finale of Breaking Bad, before going to work.

I'm coming down now, and I can't have any more meth; I need to wait – at least a week – until my veins heal. In order to keep myself awake at work – I've got to leave relatively soon, but the shift is only three hours long – I'm going to need to rely on a substantial amount of coffee. It's time to take another break from everything; only this time, when I decide to use again I have to try and be responsible. I'm tired of resenting my position as a junky; and declaring myself incapable of change. I'm tired of being weak; I want to be in control. I'm tired of being a fucking hypocrite. I don't want to fear for my physical or mental health anymore.

I'm tired of being tired; I'm tired of being depressed. I'm tired of fucking up. I'm tired of being paranoid; tired of being too high to open the front door; tired of not wanting my parents to drop in, unexpected, at my house – because the place is always littered with drugs and drug paraphenalia. I'm tired of having a fucked up house, full of rubbish and dirty dishes. I'm tired of waking up in the morning with a hangover; or a headache; or a head full of hazy memories and regret. I'm tired of having to lie to people about who I am, because I'm ashamed of being a junky; I'm tired of my constant self loathing; tired being depressed. I'm tired of stubbornly justifying my life; tired of lying to myself. I'm tired of not having enough money for food, because I've spent it on drugs or booze; tired of underperforming at university. I'm tired of trying to convince myself that drugs like alcohol and marijuana make me a better writer, when all the evidence points to the contrary. I'm tired of devaluing my sober self; tired of escapism; of avoiding reality; of delusion.

I am tired of this pain I inflict upon myself.
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Jan 16, 2012
7:30 am

I discover the source of my supposed olfactory hallucinations, before leaving for work; the litter tray is full of piss and shit. I don't know how long it's been like that. Over a week, for sure; I can't remember the last time I changed the litter.

When I make my discovery, I am exhausted; I am drunk; I am starting to come down quicker than I had anticipated. So, when I discover that the carpet in my hallway is drenched with cat piss, I get angry. I blame the cats. Fucking little animals. God damn them. Then, a minute or so later I stop myself. They don't know any better, I remind myself. It's not their fault. Poor little critters. I'm sure they don't like having to urinate on the carpet. I've been so fucked up over the past fortnight that I didn't even realize I was walking across disgusting ammonia drenched carpet fibers. I haven't changed my socks for a couple of days. I smell them. They absolutely reek of piss. It's different, though, from normal cat piss. I'm not entirely convinced what it is, at first. I have to smell it repeatedly and focus really hard to try and locate the smell. I've never been good with smells; I often confuse them for each other; a psychiatrist once suggested to me that confusing smells might be an indication of psychosis. I have particular trouble with human smells. Sweat, semen, piss, shit and vaginal juices - they all blend into each other and overlap. Sometimes I can differentiate between them, but often I confuse one for the other. I realize that sounds insane, but I've grown to accept it as normal; and, it's just the tip of the iceberg. I don't talk to people about this stuff - about my ongoing psychosis - because I've been embarrassed about it for a long time. I don't understand why I think the way I do. My thought patterns are extraordinarily unusual.

I am now convinced that I can see smells, that drug-induced psychotic episodes provide me with an extra sense; or cause my senses to overlap. When I'm sober, smells overlap with other smells. When I'm three or four days into a meth binge, apparently, smell overlaps with sight. I found about twelve or sixteen patches of weird smelling carpet in the hallway, and various other patches throughout the house. Each patch of urine, had much stronger floating particle hallucinations than the areas of carpet that were unaffected. I was, in the end, able to locate all of the affected bits of carpet by looking - from a distance - for three dimensional transparent crystalline structures protruding from the floor. While I found this mildly fascinating, it mostly terrified me. I'm sick enough, already; I don't need any more crazy.

Odors are actually tiny particles that float through the air. If you smell a pizza, you are actually inhaling a tiny amount of it. But, these particles are so small that they cannot be seen by the naked eye. I suspect that I am able to see them in a similar way that NASA is attempting to detect habitable planets halfway across the galaxy; they use telescopes to monitor the gravitational effect that planets have as they pass in front of stars. Except I am perceiving them by observing as they float past each other. Single particles, are too small to see - like distant planets. But I can observe large patterns as they connect with each other. When I stare directly at something, and don't move or blink. I can see the particles in the air. It looks like ghost matter; like ectoplasm, or some sort of gaseous substance. I see it everywhere there are strong smells; these are the only areas in which it is concentrated. It is floating around everywhere, though. I haven't opened any windows or doors for a long time; so the air in the house has been building up with ammonia. I kept smelling this weird odor everywhere, but I dismissed it as a hallucination. Because, I often have olfactory hallucinations; they are far more common than visual hallucinations. Auditory hallucinations have been increasing, recently; I keep hearing voices coming out of my computer speakers. I hear them both when there is sound coming out of the speaker, and when there isn't. This distorted voice, muffled by crackling white noise; it is becoming clearer, I think. I can almost make out the words now.

So anyway the house is full of floating odor particles. They are more concentrated as they rise from their source. These little spectral geysers, erupting out from the carpet. If I look closely, I can see it rising from a patch of soaked fibers and slowly breaking apart. It starts, concentrated, then it splits up into smaller and smaller pieces. I can see it now, all around me, as if my house is a snow globe, that is constantly being agitated.

I don't have time to stick around in the house, marveling at this weird phenomenon. I need to get ready for work. My head is so fucked; I'm drunk; and I'm coming down harder every passing second: but I can't bring myself to take any more meth. Discovering that my house has turned into a cat toilet, as I emerge form a half-week binge, is exactly the sort of thing that would typically inspire me to stay in the comforting embrace of this weird and wonderful drug. And it would help me get through work, no doubt. But I can't do it. Not this time. No more reckless behavior.

I go and have a bath, but when I lie down in the water I can smell that weird cat piss - but not cat piss - smell. I realize, they've been pissing in the bath, also. I track it to the source with my nose; the rim of the bath is covered with piss. Some of it must have dripped into the bathwater. Horrified, I get out and frantically wipe it down with a towel; then I refill the tub and get back in. The smell remains, slightly; I don't have time to scrub the tub down any longer than I have already. I'm going to be late, as it is. So, I just wash extra carefully. I do my hair twice; I don't take any chances.

Then, as I get out and wrap a towel around myself, I realize I don't have any clean clothes - except for an open suitcase with a couple of odds and ends, in the bedroom. I dry myself off and duck into the bathroom. I smell the suitcase contents, before I pick out some clothes to wear. I'm a little confused by the smell, again. I'm not sure if it's the remnants of laundry detergent or the presence of cat piss. It smells like neither and it is very faint. Besides which, I don't have much of a choice. I grab a long sleeved shirt out and a pair of tracksuit pants. I run my nose along the fabric of each, smelling deeply, but I cannot determine what the odor is, or if the garments actually smell at all.

8:45 am

I get dressed, grab a warm beer from the living room, and head off to work. Before I get to the tram stop, I can smell it. It is, undoubtedly, the odor from the carpet I smelt earlier. The cats pissed on my last pair of clothes, and now I'm going to work wearing them. I sit there, smelling myself, trying to locate a strong odor on my clothes; the top of my right sleeve reeks of piss. My tracksuit pants are covered with a faint smell. I am no longer hallucinating, visually; as soon as I left the house, I stopped. I open my beer and take a series of long, satisfying, gulps. I am in no state to go to work, but I can't take another day off with zero notice; and I can't be late again. It's better, somehow, for me to go smelling like this, than it is to not go at all - or arrive late. My client for the day has severe, and ongoing, catheter problems; and, also, he has an old cat. His apartment has a strong piss smell, lingering around, too. I couldn't see the particles in his apartment, though, regardless of lighting.

I am extremely depressed, and tired; I am confused, frightened; lost. Yet, I manage to function as if I am none of these things. I make jokes with my client, as I always do. We chat about bullshit, as I get him out of bed; get him showered and dressed, and make him breakfast and prepare his medication. We talk pretty much non-stop for 3 hours, until I have to leave. There is some heavy lifting required. It causes my right arm to ache and my fingers to tingle. I am careful not to use this arm for anything else, I keep it pressed against my chest, bent at the elbow, as if it is being supported by an invisible sling.

The combination of my anxieties about vascular damage; the fact that I smell like a litter box; and the drugs/alcohol make me nervous; but, still, I do the job properly. I don't make any mistakes. I am attentive towards my client, as always. He, apparently, does not smell it. I consider the idea that I'm imagining the odor, that there is no smell. I sniff my sleeve again, trying to recognize the odor, but I can't do it. It is strong, and unpleasant; that is all I can determine.

The hallucinations are much less vivid than they were in my house, pm account of the relative lack of stench. I do, however, discover transparent 3D structures occasionally. And, every time, they are concentrated on top of a particularly smelly bit of carpet. Either his cat has pissed in his apartment, also, or he has had a catheter bag leak. Or, option three is that there is no smell or floating particle structure. It is possible that I am hallucinating the entire thing; perhaps the only reason the hallucinations have diminished in intensity, is because the meth is wearing off. I am not convinced of any of this. I remain in a state of confusion.

1:35 pm

On the way home, I stop off at the grocery store for carpet cleaning supplies. I also buy a beer, to drink on the tram.

2:15 pm

The cats are waiting for me in the front yard; I leave them outside, so I can spray down the hallway. But, before I do that, I empty the litter tray in one of my outside bins; only to discover that I don't have any replacement litter clay. I must have run out at some point, without realizing it. I'm so fucking tired, and now I have to go and get a bag of cat litter. Fuck. I sprinkle a powdered carpet treatment evenly across the entire hallway, concentrating the amount on and around the patches of dried urine. I am not particularly surprised to see that the hallucinations are just as strong as they had been in the morning. Arranged in the exact same formation, these weird ghost-like structures protrude from the ground in over a dozen places. I use an entire tube of carpet deodorizing powder on the hallway, alone. Three minutes later, I vacuum it up. Then, for round two, I use a - more intensive - carpet foam product.

2:30 pm

I am so tired. The amount of work I have to do, to restore my house to a level of basic functionality is overwhelming. The bath and the shower need to be scrubbed down; and the carpet needs to be treated in almost every single room. I have to do it. I can't continue to breathe in the piss fumes. So I need to go out and get more carpet products, and some cat litter; even though the lightest bag is 6 kilograms and I shouldn't be carrying anything even remotely heavy with my arm. The inner elbow still feels tender from work. I haven't collapsed a vein, inexplicably I have - indeed - gained back the vein that I lost in 2011. It is bigger now, than it was this morning; perhaps half the size it had initially been. I don't think this is possible. At least, I don't understand how it could happen. If the entire vein, all the way down my arm, disappeared - that means it closed up. I can't wrap my head around how it could spontaneously return - particularly after such a long period of time. I'm not complaining, though; it's nice to have the cephalic back.

I finish my beer and glance out across the carpet, locating - from a distance - three or four protruding ghost structures in various parts of the room. I smell each of them, to confirm what I already know. They smell, slightly fainter than in the hallway, of that weird cat piss substitute.

I can actually see smells!

While I'm disgusted about the state of the house, I am also amazed and intrigued by this newly realized ability of mine. At the same time, I'm tempted to disbelieve myself. Psychotics always believe their delusions; but that doesn't make them real. The fact that I perceive this to be happening, doesn't mean that it is happening. But, I can't convince myself that it's not real. How could my body be capable of producing such a convincing and complex delusion. The combination of sight and smell is like noting I've ever encountered.

If it is psychosis, I am getting much worse. My delusions have never manifested themselves so clearly and convincingly before; like the voices I hear from my speakers - and, occasionally, from my toaster - the hallucinatory part of my psychosis has always been distorted; except for one other incident, about five years ago.

I had been combining meth with psilocybin mushrooms for about four days when the creatures appeared, dancing crazily around the room. At the time, I described them as "cube-like multicolored polymorphal beings with dozens of opening and closing orifices". But, it's really quite impossible to put them into words. I would later describe them as "jellyfish-like" - in terms of their opacity - and "squid like" - in terms of movement. But, none of these descriptions come close to creating an image like what I actually saw. They continued to dance around the room, and I watched them, breathless, for about four hours. At the time, I thought I was seeing a glimpse into a parallel dimension; that was the only explanation, I could muster. Later, I wondered if - perhaps - I had seen God or some kind of divine entity. Whatever it was, I truly believed it to be real - as I believe I am currently able to perceive odors with both my eyes. and my nose. I recognize that this "must sound crazy", but it doesn't sound crazy to me - because I've seen it. The creatures were interactive. They would react, if I attempted to put my hand through them; they were aware of me. And now, this strange phenomenon - blending two of my senses into one.

I open my last beer, and wander over to the shops.
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Sep 12, 2012
I'd just like to say I'm new, and I've read your posts on a marijuana smoking mother thread and thought you were an intelligent, rational human. I've read most of this thread also, it's obvious now that you're a writer, it's easy to follow. But dude, you need some sleep! Take care


Jan 28, 2012
Wow i bow to your pure insanity, my feeble efforts pale in comparison

While this may be insensitive due to the tone of this post, Dare i burden you with a few queries an overlord tweaker may be able to answer, i currently do not have such a vital authority figure in my current environment. I will read and provide feedback to your post with proper serious thought when sober, as you post deserves.

1. Nasal/oral only, very high, very low doses, no change. I cant get past day 3, almost at exactly the same time each binge the vasco symptoms hits hard in a way that is more distracting then the usally i dont give a fuck attitude. Any tips on why and how to avoid, Does smoking make a notable difference. So far Wiskey and more meth work wonders, but i am concerned this may be a somewhat irresponsible approach.

2. If getting past day 3, Day 4 that doped up drunken head high tired feeling hits, foggy brain, unpleasant disassociated state and totally anti high, even with more dose. Feels related to vasco side effects with that fucked up vision and smells, shit smelling like tasty food etc, it feels like something has happened, not just a side effect but a show stopper. Nothing to do but dose seroquel and sleep. Really want to make some shadow friends though. Love the mental crazyness, zero concern and godlike powers on high doses, 1g power crystal 36 hours.

Though i suspect the correct answer from meth is "Side Effects, Concerns, Trivial Worthless Human Weakness! Dose me until all else fades away and ascend to godhood for a short time.

And this does work, in high doses, ahh how i miss absolute immunity form even the smallest concern or negative emotion.

Anyways, my report which pales in comparison can be found here: You will see i went for authenticity, plugged the obsessive perfection seeking and carefully crafted an easily misjuged masterpiece requiring resisting the urge to normalize,standerdaize,conform it and simply express mind to paper, love letting the those little creative side thoughts run their course.


Anyways man your report is true control man you got that writing on meth thing down. I didnt see it mentioned man but maybe consider some seroquel, besides the obvious easy way out comedown avoidance, the true value is redose management, the biggest ass fuck of all. You dose it while high and thinking clearly, no comedown, sleep. Also i get half a gram, big power doses for 3 days. I try make sure my senses are noticably distorted from the get go, it feeds the need for data to analyze and the competitive drive by presenting the challenge of exerting total control of senses that seek only to trick you and a mind spawning constant lies and riddles to catch you off guard.


Jan 16, 2012

There is a joint hanging out of my mouth; I bought some really nice weed today, had it delivered. Amphetamines may make me a better writer, and teach me extraordinary things; and I may love psychosis like The Mad Hatter loves tea parties: but, I need to take along break from meth. It feels good to not care about my life; to not be afraid of death. The reason people smoke cigarettes is suicide. Each cigarette is a rebellion against the bullshit; and every time I put a needle in my vein, I take pleasure in the fact that I am killing myself. It's all part of the appeal.

So, anyway, since last time, I ended up taking the rest of the meth...

6:28 pm (+107:11), Day 5

My weed arrives. Haven't hooked up with this dealer for ages. His bud is always cheap and of the highest quality; I don't know if he's going to be working 24 hours a day, like my regular guy, so I buy an ounce. Better be overstocked, if anything. I open up the big envelope; inside is a zip lock bag stocked with what I have come to expect from him. I can tell just by looking at it.

I mix up a shot in a spoon and – using the barrels, with removable 27 gauge tips – I deliver it into my vein, perfectly. There is a small rock remaining, half the size; I mix it up and fuck up the delivery. I don't care, though. It's just nice to be done with that crazy drug for a while. 20 mg is nothing; I spray it down the back of my throat. That's the last of the meth.

11:34 pm (+112:17)

I roll up a joint, using a 0.3 gram chunk of the new super weed, mixed with a finely ground combination of my previous two strains. By the time I'm halfway through smoking it, I am grinning like an idiot. I continue to drink my beer, and take long meaningful drags – until there is nothing left of either. I start singing along to a Johnny Cash song, Folsom Prison Blues.

I feel a perfect combination of these three drugs: meth, alcohol and marijuana; I feel euphoric, as if I have just had a shot. This was a strange way to quit smoking cigarettes, but it worked surprisingly well. The worst of the withdrawals have probably already occurred. Being stoned is amazing, combined with the alcohol and the amphetamine binge. Which, brings us back to the beginning...

There is a joint hanging out of my mouth; I relight it.

1:52 am

I am coming down pretty hard, now. I should probably eat something and get some sleep, but I don't think I'm going to do that. I'm going to stay awake, one last night.

3:52 am

Too tired to stay awake, need to get a couple of hours of sleep before going to work; but, I'm worried I might sleep for ever.

7:18 am, Day 6

I wake up, to my alarm, and – somehow – I'm refreshed enough to get moving straight away. No hangover. No snooze, today. No spraying deodorant on and rushing out the door, still wearing the clothes I fell asleep in. I get up and eat the dried up pieces of cotton, left over from filtering shots. I collect them, then eat them, because I always lose at least 1 unit of water when I mix up; sometimes – if I'm particularly drunk, for example – as many as 5; so, since there was five grams to begin with, the collected pieces of cotton I used – assuming roughly 50 units per shot – will contain somewhere between 10 and 50 mg of meth. I find that this range, taken orally, is perfect as a little booster to take the edge off that first day of withdrawals. If anybody's reading this, and thinking – why the fuck does he lose 2-10% of every shot – it's because I use pieces of cotton that are quite large, becausae my hands aren't that steady and I don't want to accidentally barb the needle against the spoon. Anyway, so I eat this and I grab my second last beer – of an additional twelve I purchased last night. I do some math in my head. I drank 17 beers last night.

Sometime later, I emerge from the house clean and refreshed. It is a beautiful day.

I listen to Nick Drake at the tram stop, gazing up at the clouds. In the past five days, I've had a bowl of curry and two samosas. That's all. I've hardly even had any water to drink. Maybe a litre of water in total, 200 ml a day, maximum. So, the cotton I ate before was digested immediately. I feel good. The trip to work is really pleasant. I sing, as if nobody can hear me, despite the peak-hour traffic lined up beside the bus stop. People walk past me, and hear, β€œTell me, tell me, what have I done wrong? Ain't nothing gone right with me; must be I've been smoking too long.” I don't have the greatest voice in the world, but that doesn't mean I should be any more ashamed to sing than an ugly person is to go outside. β€œI've got opium in my chimney; no other life to chose. Nightmare made of hash dreams; got the Devil in my shoes. Tell me, tell me, what have I done wrong? Ain't nothing gone right with me; must be I've been smoking too long.”

I am actually running considerably early for my 9 am start, so I stop at McDonald's for some breakfast, on the way. I'm in top form at work. I'm not sure how it's possible to function this well, without any sleep or food. Once upon a time, I wouldn't have been able to handle it. It bothers me that I'm so accustomed to dealing with this sort of situation.

11:55 am

I roll two joints, using the same three-strain combination of weed I tried last night. Each joint is a quarter of a gram. I grab the last beer, and go to University. I'm late for class, as usual. It's tough trying to work and study at the same time, schedule-wise. I light the joint and open the beer. Put Johnny Cash on my headphones. I walk across campus, holding a bottle of Carlton Draught in my left hand, and a smoking joint in my right. I have always treated tertiary campuses like this. It's not high school. I'm an adult and if I want to smoke a joint there's not much they can do about it, except asking me to put it out. I think it's weird that people are surprised to see someone smoking a joint on a university campus. I mean, I'm a fucking art student; what do they expect?

It starts raining pretty heavily. I have to hold the joint inside my hand, and puff on it continuously, to avoid it getting wet. The wind picks up so much that a fountain starts spraying buck-loads of water sideways onto the walkway. I walk a little faster, and it rains harder still. I am getting soaked through, and I'm cold – I'm only wearing one thin layer. I'm getting close to class, when I realize I've been so focused on not letting the rain extinguish my joint, I haven't had much of the beer. So I start going rapidly back and forth between the two: taking long drags of the joint; guzzling a large mouthful of beer; exhaling; and, so on. Since I am not smoking tobacco anymore, all of my joints are now green. I leave behind me a trail of scent so thick, that even an idiot could use to determine the culprit. I walk directly past staff and students, blowing smoke in their faces. I am about 100 metres away from the classroom, when I realize I am fucked up. I enter an undercover courtyard, and go down the stairs. I am walking slowly. I am totally relaxed. I still have the tiniest little bit of my joint left. I stand outside the door of the classroom and smoke it, before going inside.

I find an exercise in class disinteresting, so I leave and attempt to buy a coffee – but, there's an EFTPOS minimum. I have no apetite for food, so I get two large coffees. I figure maybe I'll need the energy. I drink them in class, one after another. They're fucking massive coffees, ridiculous; once I finish the first one, I really don't want to drink the second one: I down them both in twenty minutes. Then class ends, and I have an hour break, so I walk back home and roll a joint. I smoke a joint on the way home. I do this, intentionally, in front of the other students – because, the needy ego in me wants to impress people.

Anyway, I'm sitting at home at my computer and I notice my heart is beating really fast – like faster than I would have thought it possibly could – but I'm not to fussed. Just the caffeine and the meth, working together, trying to kill me. Nothing to be concerned about. It'll go away in half an hour.

Back at uni, an hour and fiteen minutes after the palpitations and the spasms started. I'm twitching violently every three seconds, or so. I look like I have Tourrette's syndrome or CP or something. Clearly, there is something wrong with me; though I don't arouse any suspicion. Everybody, including the teacher, just assumes I'm on some kind of exotic drug. And, well, I am I guess.

Minus the exotic part.

I try to control my heartrate by varying the pace and volume of my breath. I breathe deep, as if I'm meditating, and release. I try to relax, but it's no good. I'm just drawing attention to the fact that I'm high as a kite: sitting there, eyes all glazed and bloodshot; my body spasming as I meditate. Clearly I'm fucked. And they all know it. But it's not the drug. This is something new. Something horrible.

I manage to force myself through the entire class. For brief periods of time – 30 seconds or so – I manage to concentrate hard enough to stop the twitching. All of my energy is focused on this task, I pay no attention to anything the teacher says. Not that that's unusual. I fucking hate philosophy. My next class is just as bad, if not worse. Fucking modernism this, post-modernism that. I'm so sick of all the bullshit. It means nothing to me. I refuse to learn it. I refuse to learn practically everything. People should refuse to learn more often, whether or not they are twitching like an electric eel. Everything should always be questioned. The world would be a much more interesting place if everybody was raised alone for the first fifteen years of their lives, each in their own isolated facilities. Academia mass produces replicate mindsets. I'm so tired of these fucking uni students, I think, twitching, my face distorted by this terror. They just fucking repeat what they hear. They don't think. They listen; they write shit down; memorize it; and repeat. I don't write anything down. Note-taking, in this fashion, is the dullest form of learning imaginable. I put up with it, because I have to. Every other student in the class enthusiastically writes this shit down. I don't; I tolerate it, that's all. One of my teachers said the other day – attempting to pass it off as an off-hand remark aimed at the class, despite her completely lack of subtlety – β€œDon't you find that, even though you rarely read notes afterwards, the act of notetaking itself helps you learn the material?” I'm thinking about this, and I'm twitching. I'm thinking, fuck I'm having a heart attack. I'm thinking I want to fuck this fat old bitch. Fuck her till she screams β€œNeitsche is dead!” I think about her big saggy tits, then I swap to a girl in the front row. Twitch. Heart attack. Fucking repetition, as a serious teaching aide, in university, that's what she's selling us. Like cult members repeating mantras until they brainwash themselves, the academic world is enslaved by knowldege; we are told what to think, rather than what to think about. If I could write about Sartre or Camus in any way I saw fit, then I'd be happy to study philosophy: but, I can't do that, I need to work within the framework of the past and the present. We are not encouraged to transcend our society, or our place in history; we are told that imagination is limitless, yet we are told to remain within the dotted lines. We find ourselves, upon being born, continuing someone else's path; humanities path. Our contribution is to be progressive; it must exist in the correct context in terms of modernism and post modernism. We must have a target audience. We must be able to critically analyse our own work, by everyone else's standards. Art theory and art are incompatible. Twitch. Fuck the girl beside me. Repetition. Saggy tits. Heart attack. Finally, the class ends.

I leave quickly, to avoid the embarrasment of being asked what's wrong with me. There's always a reason I run off. I don't know why I need to make excuses to myself. I don't want to talk to them. I don't like them. Literature and philosophy majors are not my favorite kind of people. Philosophy, particularly, is a big pile of shit. It's a fucking joke. Bunch of pretentious assholes selling thoughts. Existential philosophers contradict themselves all the time, including the β€œalmighty Neitsche”. He also says some really obvious shit. If I hear β€œGod is dead,” one more time, I'm going to grab whoever said it by the head and vomit into their ears. How the fuck is this a memorable statement? Why are we still talking about it; I mean, wasn't he just – succintly – summating a trend that was, at the time, rather obvious? Fucking Netische. Western philosophers don't know shit. They're empty; they're spiritually bankrupt: the question they are asking – meaning without God – has no answer. Like trying to review a book you will never read, or a blind man describing the colour orange; try as they might to compensate for their lack of faith, by rationalizing, they're efforts are pointless. Intellect – specifically, this progressive human intellect that enslaves us all – is not capable of understanding. Logic has no place in the philosophical/religious world. The only difference between a man of faith and an atheist/agnostic philosopher is the absence of God. Philosophy is religion without God. Since intellect is – as the Buddhists always say – a distraction from spiritual enlightenment, our spirituality dimishes as we develop and become more intelligent.

β€œGod is dead,” (I stop writing to vomit into my own ears) because the mighty humans – and all they have accomplished! – have lost their humility. We think we know so much about the nature of life; we know nothing. We are scratching the surface. Yet everybody insists that they know there is no God. And then they say, β€œWell, how do you know there is a God?” I don't know. I do actually, because I've met God on numerous occasions, but let's just say – for illustrative purposes – that I don't. Either way, I can't answer the question. The me that hasn't transcended space and time might say something about faith. You know that β€œbullshit” Christian response.

Faith. Ha. Idiots! Am I right?

If it's not tangible – if we can't see it like a tree or a rabbit – then it doesn't exist; if an opinion has not been established, and accepted by a large group of people, then it is not an opinion. I stop when I enter the lit building. Modernism. Twitch. Post-modernism. My heart is going to explode. I sit down, and try to gain control over it. But I am panicked already, it's too late. This is a panic attack like nothing I could imagine. I think, maybe, I should call an ambulance. Slowly, I make my way down the hallway the correct room. The door is closed. I can hear murmured voices inside; teacher asking questions, she has provided the answers for. Old books I don't give a shit about. Virginia fucking Woolf. James Joyce. Every writer we read is dead, just like Neitsche: safe in the grave.

It's not as if there haven't been any good books in the past fifty years; the reason we focus on outdated and irrelevant β€œclassics” is because everything is easier to understand in retrospect. This progressive disease that we call progress – twitch – has, by now, had time to establish the popular opinions. Literature is not art, for scholars and literary critics; it is a code, yet to be deciphered. It is an exercise in reverse engineering. And, it is a competition. Whoever proves to understand a text, and all it's complexities, to the nth degree, becomes the authority on said book or author. These Proust scholars, and Sartre scholoars; how pathetic, they are. Some believe that they understand more about the work than the author: and, maybe they do; maybe they know everything, but they feel nothing. They read and they analyze according to a preset list of paramters. Like scanners; robots; computers. History is a subset; they apply other approved opinions, like Freud and Aristotle. Then they defecate onto the next generations hungry mouths, and on it goes. Us – the mighty human race! – forever trying to perfect the imperfect.

I am sitting outside the classroom, trying to build up the courage to go inside; to go in and wait out the clock. I stare at the door for a long time, maybe thirty minutes. Dozens of people walk back and forth in the hallway, but nobody from my class. Finally, I walk in. I sit down. I twitch. Post-modernism. Modernism. Intertextual references. The surrealist movement. Ha, I think. Everybody should be their own movement. People are looking at me, whispering amongst themselves, trying to work out what I'm on; after fifteen minutes, I think – fuck this – and get up to leave. Nobody stops me. Nobody says anything. This slightly offends me, considering how I'm spasming like a lunatic – but, for the most part, I'm relieved. It's a clean break; I'm free.

I wander around in circles, not sure what to do. I consider calling an ambulance, but what if it's just an anxiety attack. That would be embarrassing. All I need to do is lower my heart rate. I wander into the university pub. A girl from one of my classes, is sitting by herself drinking white wine. She calls me over. I join her. β€œDoes alcohol raise or lower your heartrate?” I ask her, in between twitches. I explain the situation, with the meth and what not. She says, she thinks it lowers the heartrate. I google it on my phone to be sure, but I can't find the right answer. The girl from my class, let's call her B, she yells out to the bartender, β€œHey! Does alcohol raise or lower your heartbeat?” The bartender says, β€œIt lowers it.” I approach the bar. Twitch. Heart attack. β€œYou sure?” I ask him. He nods. I think, fuck it, I'll just drink slowly and gauge the reaction. I order a pot of Boags.

As I continue to drink – one, two, three, four beers – my heartrate gradually returns to normal. I find myself staring at this girl's tits. She's beautiful; six or seven years younger than me, curly blond hair, denim mini-skirt. I want to fuck her.

Another student, from our class, arrives. He's her age. He is also a virgin. A 22 year old virgin. Weird. There's seemingly nothing wrong with him. He says he never had the opportunity. I am confused. I ask him, β€œWere you raised by mormons or something?” They laugh. I continue to drink. As time goes on, I realise – more and more – that I am the odd one out. Just six or seven years between us, and I can't relate to them. I'm lacking the cultural reference points. And, I don't care. The conversation becomes disinteresting, after a while; I've never had much patience for prolonged social contact. This girl, despite the fact that I want to fuck her, she's not interesting enough to maintain my interest. And, she's too young. She keeps talking about clubs and fucking, doing her best to impress the two of us. I scam a cigarette off the bartender.

Come home only to find myself in a junky hovel without any junk: there aren't too many more depressing situations than this; having to exist, to experience my life, without drugs. It doesn't take long for me to embrace the self-loathing provided – in abundance – by the withdrawals. I go into a deep introspective state and learn a lot about myself. Withdrawals and hangovers are great for self-criticism. I'd say I've probably learnt more during these hellish after-drug periods; during the journey back: than I have on the journeys themselves. I discover, for example, that my gums are seriously fucked up. It's been at least 5 years since I've gone to the dentist. I can feel holes in my teeth with my tongue. I've been able to for a long time; yet I still don't go to the dentist. I repress it on a regular basis, how uncomfortable it makes me feel sometimes. If I'm in junky mode, and I haven't washed or brushed my teeth for a couple of days, I probably won't even realize. I haven't had a good look at my gums for years. Now, ironically, it's the meth – which, causes a shitload of dental damage – that makes me realize, I need to go get a checkup. Most likely will require a number of surgical procedures to get me back to – I was going to back to my old confident ways, but that'd just be a lie. I've never been confident. I never understood why I had bad breath so soon after brushing. I think most people with bad breath, don't realize that it's fucking gum disease doing it; that it's not an inherent – and inexplicable – biological flaw in some people. As if, a select few are doomed – God knows why – to exhale the odour of horse shit. This, I realize, is at the core of my psychological problems; and, to my surprise, Google informs me that it's easily fixed.

During the psychosis and the withdrawals, I also – and perhaps more importantly – come to terms with the psychosis I have been experiencing for, probably, my entire life. I can't pinpoint when it began, but I have been repressing it my entire life; pretending that it doesn't exist; acting like a β€œnormal” person. Everything became clear to me.

The next day I went to the doctor, for a psychiatrist recommendation, and made a dentist appointment. Soon, I will be complete: for the first time ever. I've already decided, at this point, that I'm going to start dating again after my teeth have been fixed. Haven't been in the same room as a naked woman for well over two and a half years. I am losing interest in masturbation, and – therefore – sex; I am also losing interest in drugs; I just need to find somebody to love.

People are so harsh on meth and heroin. Typically these are people who've never let themselves love either one. They say, like good little parrots, β€œHeroin is the Devil!” or, β€œMeth will fuck up your life!” Very little positive is ever said about these two drugs. Yet they improve all the senses dramatically, inspire boundless creativity, allow people to fuck all night, and – through psychosis – provide a deeper level of personal insight than psychedelics are capable. It has an enormous amount of potential; more potential, in terms of it's practical applications, than any other drug – in my opinion. It's no co-incidence that the Third Reich was so successful, before it collapsed on itself. Hitler realized the potential of methamphetamines. So do I.

You see a lot of these hipster movies like β€œSpun” about trailer trash tweakers; but there aren't very many movies that explore the various cognitive and physical benefits meth provides. β€œLimitless” comes to mind. If only I could tame a crystal and utilize all of it's power, I would truly be limitless. If I spent all my time on meth doing productive work, I'd be lightyears ahead of the game. The potential is there, but people fuck it up. They start taking a dangerous addictive drug, without any intention of doing so responsibly. They abuse it; and, by doing so, they ruin whatever potential it had for them in the first place. Sigmund Freud didn't fuck it up; neither did Stephen King. Amphatimes are like steroids for the mind, body and soul; they give you a distinct advantage of the rest of the population, in every category. Consumed in the right quantities, it can be used – I think 0- to permanently raise mean intelligence quotients. Not to mention reaction time, stamina, memory, confidence, artistic abilities, sexual prowess. The benefits are huge; but so are the drawbacks.

Injecting meth is not a good idea, unless you take absolute care when doing so at all times. And, nobody does that. We're all a little reckless. So one day you're drunk and you stab your vein ten or twelve times with an increasingly blunted needlepoint, struggling to find a vein. Even if you do find it, and administer perfectly, meth is toxic to the vascular system. Depending on your sensitivity, repeated use of the drug – assuming every shot is perfect – can cause veins to collapse. It damages your teeth more than any other drug, and it's far worse for your veins than – good quality – heroin. It is also highly neurotoxic, and it is – in my opinion – the most addictive drug on the planet.

So the pros and cons weigh up pretty even; those who burn twice as long, burn half as fast; all's well in Inglewood; don't look the Baron in the eyes; car batteries are not sex toys; etc.

5:15 pm

I get home. Feel like utter shit. Can't do any more meth. All I have to rely on is some marijuana and a couple of cold beers. Then I realize I've got pills too. I forgot about them. Real MDMA, apparently, which is far from my favorite drug. But, under the circumstances, it's perfect.

I crush up the pill on my desk. The surface is encrusted with filth. But, fuck it, it's going up my nose not in my vein. I snort half of it down. It burns, and I can taste it – bitter – dripping down the back of my throat. I quickly drink three more beers and smoke a joint. I blast some music, and sing along. I feel good. The pill is indeed MDMA. Not too strong. I'd say something like 100mg.
?:?? am, Day 7

I sleep at work, even though it's the day shift. I lock myself in the office and close the blinds. A couple of staff members visit throughout the day, to find me clearly in a state of post-awakening as I open the door. It's impossible, combined with the withdrawals, to disguise my tiredness so I don't bother. If people already know you're doing something, best not to act like you feel guilty about it. What are they going to do, anyway? They don't have any seniority over me. If anything, I'm in charge; the office is mine for the day. These staff members, of various shapes and sizes; these men and women, with their judgemental eyes: I don't care what they think. I sleep approximately six hours, out of an eight hour shift. More than enough to reset myself into a second binge. I make sure to eat a lot, too, even though I'm not hungry. I force it down: Indian food; pizza; juice; milk; coffee; fruit; potato chips. Anything I can manage to eat. The more the merrier.

I get three hours sleep.

7:45 pm

The house is littered with empty beer bottles and used syringes. I notice a small pile of powder on the desk, beside me; it is whatever remains – maybe one sixth – of the pill from last night. I scrape it up into a line, but I can't find anything to snort it with. The hollowed-out biro I was using as a makeshift straw has since been adapted into a cigarette holder; it has a burnt-out roach jammed in one end. I walk around the room, trying to find something I can roll up into a straw shape; there is nothing but empty packets of syringes and cigarette lighters. I sit back down and scrape the powder into a pile on to the corner of the desk. I lean down and position my nostril directly above it, careful not to breathe until I am ready. The powder flies up into my nose. It burns, slightly. I pinch my nostrils together, using mucous membranes as bread for an MDMA sandwich. I can feel it instantly. It washes over the depression; suffocating my emotions, replacing them with a warm artifical void.

Minutes later, I find a syringe with about 5 mls of clotted blood. It looks as if it hasn't been rinsed for remaining traces of meth. I take it into the bathroom, and add another 10 mls of boiling water; take off the needle point, remove my pants, and shove it up my ass. I empty the syringe, and clench my cheeks to ensure that it doesn't leak back out as I withdraw. Finally, I swallow a piece of cotton I find on the floor; it has been used – at some point – to filter meth from spoon to syringe, which means it should contain traces of amphetamines. Finally, I roll a joint: with 0.3 grams of high quality bud. The MDMA and the meth are subtle, they serve as a nice little boost to help me out of my depressive state. I go into the living room, put on a movie, and light my joint.

?:?? am, Day 8

After work, I give my dealer a call. At around 7:00 pm, he drops by another half gram. When he sold me the first one, I bargained him down. He said it was a hundred dollars cheaper only that once. But, that's bullshit. I'm not paying an extra hundred. He didn't lose money on the first deal. He offers fifty offf. I tell him, I'm not going to buy off him again unless he agrees to my terms. I tell him he can either have my business and make a bit of money, or I'll go somewhere else. I'm an excellent liar, which is one of those questionable skills I guess. But it comes in handy. I would've made a good lawyer. As for this dealer guy, I'm ready to take the bluff as far as I need to, in order to convince him I'm serious; but I hope it doesn't come to that, to me walking away: because I'm not serious. I play hardball. I don't settle for one dollar less; he either sells to me at my price, or he doesn't sell. I often bargain with dealers; most of the time it works, for a little discount – or a bonus – and sometimes it doesn't. A hundred dollars discount is a record. He really didn't want to agree to it, his body language became increasingly awkward as he attempted – and repeatedly failed – with his negotiating. I take the little bag and head back home, glancing over my shoulder, in true paranoid fashion – to make sure he is not following me home.

My veins are fucked, so I decide to smoke instead – but I don't know how. I've hardly ever smoked meth, or any other chemical. It's going to be really bad for my teeth and gums. I think back to those extreme close ups in β€œSpun” of dull red lips and yellow teeth. Oh well, I'll find out soon enough how difficult – and expensive – the dentist is going to be; after all these years of neglecting my teeth and eating poisons, it's no wonder. In fact, I deserve it.

It is a price you have to pay for abusing rather than using.

I google β€œHow to smoke meth on tinfoil,” and follow the instructions. Previously, I'ver only ever sprinkled it in a cone with weed or smoked it in a crack pipe. And I've never smoked seriously. Like, maybe once or twice in twelve years. Chasing the Dragon is new, and a little exciting. But it's a frustrating process for a beginner on a budget. It's cool but it's inefficient; I struggle to see how someone completely accustomed to, and at ease with, this particular method of consumption... I struggle to see how even they could not lose a bit of smoke. It's expensive stuff. Too expensive to allow it to evaporte into thin air. So I look up other methods, and quickly come across the lightbulb; which is also something I've never done before. I really enjoy it, I smoke all night.

The effects of IV are much preferable to smoking/vaporizing meth. There are a number of good things about smoking, versus IV, that I observed, like: increased hallucinatory properties; the surprisingly smooth taste of the smoke; and, the complete lack of introduced bacteria. Although the last trait, can be seen either way. You have to be extremely careful when preparing a syringe, which makes IV a clean and controlled proccess. Smoking is the opposite, it's a mess. For someone like me, who – given the opportunity, quickly regresses into some kind of urban filth-dwelling swamp monster – it's not ideal. What mainly appealed to me was the fact that it was a new experience. Also, it was nice to be able to take a break from my veins for a while. I built a little pipe out of a biro casing, an old school style light-bulb, and a roll of sticky tape. Instead of putting a lighter flame on the glass, I lit a candle and hovered my pipe above it. This turned it into a kind of telescope. In order to make sure I was in the right position, while remaining in position, I peered through the biro mouthpiece, wiggling it around like a periscope. The candlelight shone through the crystals, giving them a heavenly golden glow, which – at the peak of the hallucinations – took artistic form.

When you hold a lighter close to a light-bulb, it goes black. The glass itself doesn't burn, just a tiny surface layer. You can easily wipe it clean with a bit of alfoil. After about 150 mg of meth, over four or five hours, all I had to do – to see a magnificent piece of art – was hold the bulb up to the candlelight, sideways, and look through the glass. I saw the most extraordinary renderings. Landscaps and portraits, each one exquisite. I'm not sure how the hallucinations worked. In fact, I'm not sure that they were hallucinations at all. I think my mind was functioning so well that it managed, upon first glance, to find familiar patterns in the chaos. In that tiny light-bulb, I saw huge epic drawings of sprawling landscapes. Like nothing I've ever seen before. Each one stylish and unique; each one beautiful. Then I would peer down the mouthpiece again, for that abstract art. Crystals and candlelight; because of the limited perspective, it looked as if it had been enlarged. Like the pipe really was a microscope and what I was witnessing was chemistry itself.

Meth melts into liquid form when you heat it to the right temperature; then, if you keep the flame on it, it combusts into a massive amount of smoke. A tiny crystal can produce numerous lungfuls. This is my main criticism of smoking; I find it difficult to consume it fast enough to achieve a rush. Though, I was distracted by my extraordinary little canvases. I think, if I was using a crack pipe, I'd have more luck. But, I don't want to invest in something that is going to destroy my teeth any more. I need to start looking after myself.

As far as other methods go, snorting chemicals is not something I've ever enjoyed doing. If you do pills, a lot of the shit gets stuck in your nose; and a lot of pure chemicals, like meth, feel like fire against the mucus membranes. I don't like the idea of having remnants of this highly corrosive chemical inside my nostrils, up against such sensitive skin. So, whenever I snort something, I have to flush it through with water after a couple of minutes. Then you have the dregs drip down the back of your throat. None of it is pleasant. Snorting is the least pleasant method of consumption.

The way to go, really, with everything – assuming, of course, that it's orally active – is to eat it. This is how nature intended us to consume. Sticking things in veins and up our asses might work, but the body doesn't anticipate it happening; so we're ill-equipped to process it. Plugging is like snorting. Both involve putting drugs into an orifice that is not designed for insertions of any kind.
I prefer plugging, slightly, but it's apples and oranges; the delicate tissue in the anus and nasal are rapidly destroyed by meth. But, so are your gums, tongue, teeth, and – to a lesser extent – throat. Meth is just bad for you, full stop. The only method of consumption that is relativey safe is oral consumption via either gelcaps or dilution in water.

A common mistake that people make when injecting meth is to use the minimum amount of water required for their crystals to dissolve; obviously the more dilute it is, the less damage it will do to your vascular walls. I started whacking ice in high school; this incredibly hot ultra-skinny druggy-type, who was also a fashion model, introduced me to the world of needles at the age of sixteen. Almost thirteen years later and I have only collapsed one vein, despite being utterly reckless and neglectful of proper procedures. I've had a lot of nightmare hits, when I'm way to fucked to whack anything. I've had shots so bad that they've induced recurring nightmares. At times, I've had more than fifty fresh injection sites on my body. Still, only one vein collapsed. And now, inexplicably, it's back; my long lost celaphic, has finally come home: I'm not going to use it, or anything stupid like that, it's just nice to be complete again. To have the whole set.

People exagerate the dangers of meth and of IV drug use in general. With proper care, frequent breaks, and moderate use, I don't think I ever would have had a problem. I have done more damage to my veins than I thought possible. Those drunk nightmare shots, when I was desperate and broke; I didn't give up until I delivered it into my bloodstream. The meth and the alcohol fucked with my perception of time; I didn't realize that, sometimes, half an hour might have passed since I began the process. When it was finally time to accept defeat, I'd find myself covered with holes. A hideous junky version of Spongebob Squarepants. Then, sometimes, I'd go again. I'd tell myself that I fucked the last one up from the beginning; that this time will be different. Of course, by that time there wouldn't be any room for fresh sites; so, either have to slide into pre-existing sites or go for deep veins – in my forearm or upper arm – which is difficult enough to do sober. Once, I hit a nerve on my way to a vein. A bolt of constant pain ran from my arm to my brain, like an electrical circuit. I knew that the vein was on the other side of the nerve; I'd just come in at the wrong angle, somehow. The smart thing to do would have been to pull out and start again. I went through the nerve, hit the vein, delivered, and then pulled back out. If you've never done this, you have no idea how painful it is. I don't care if you've given birth to triplets. Think about the nerve ending in a tooth. Now think about piercing it with a sewing needle.

I wish I had been more careful with my veins: they used to be big and healthy; now, the king, my right celaphic, once a massive tree trunk with dozens of tiny brancehs, is now just a sapling; and the rest of them zig-zag back and forth down my arm, abd have shrunk to about half their original size.

This, after twelve years of abuse. These days, I'm more careful. Those horrorific drunken attempts, at least they helped me to discover some restraint. They are etched into my mind, with other personal traumas; most of which, incidentally, are self-inflicted. Still, I am reckless and impatient; if I keep going the way I am, I won't have any veins left.

Instead of hitting the veins as I usually would, I do one shot and then top up the high – when required – by taking hits from the light-bulb pipe. I don't bother to look at the beautiful art behind that thin layer of glass. I just smoke, and drink my beer, and make more of a mess. I spill candle wax and bits of liquified meth residue on the carpet. There are black stains and white stains; don't know if I'll be able to get them out. Fucking dirty way to consume drugs, if you're a careless slob.

I make sure to gently brush my teeth and rinse with mouthwash every time I hit the pipe. Don't want to end up with no teeth left, in a month's time; it's pretty fucking ridiculous, considering the state of my gums, that I'm smoking this highly toxic shit in the first place. Like, directly after I discovered that I had advanced gum disease – including, probably, some jaw bone loss – I decided to act with total disregard for my dental health. I justified it, and probably will continue to do so, by reminding myself that I need to take a break from the needle. At any cost.

?:?? am, Day 9

Stayed up all night again. I've slept something like 16 hours in 8 days. Averaging 2 hours a day. Yet, I'm not tired at all. I don't look like I've just crawled out of a hovel. When I'm on the tram people smile at me. Old fellas talk to me, as if I'm their grandson. And I'm really enthusiastic, in response. Nobody suspects that I'm in the middle of a prolonged meth binge, at this point.

I have a night shift today. Would have been a good time to take a break, though coming down from eight days on meth – at work – might not be the best idea. It's proved ill-advised in the past. So, there's only one choice really; I have to get high at work. Yes. I'll take my stack of overdue assignments with me and I'll get super high and do them all, while everybody is sleeping.

Brilliant, I think; but there's this confusing part of me that's conflicted. Not sure why. I'll be better at my job than ever before. I'll be a fucking super employee.

3:30 pm

I'm really scattered, so I have a pipe and another beer; to bring me up, and settle me down. I grab a whole bunch of supplies. Books, homework, DVDs – and, of course – alfoil, a biro casing, and a lighter. The one thing I forget is a lighter, so I borrow one from one of the clients, pretending that it's for cigarettes. I wait until lights out, before I get started.

10:45 pm

I'm so tired, I can hardly work out what I'm doing. It takes me a while. I put the television on, to drown out the sound of the lighter. β€œSkippy, the Bush Kangaroo,” is playing; I've never seen it before; it is, by far, the worst piece of shit I've ever seen. But, it's kind of hilarious in that scattered hysterical daze that settles on you in the absence of fresh crystals. It's not laugh out loud funny, and I'm not in a laughing mood. I don't even smile, but I am – on some level – thoroughly amused. I smoke, slowly as usual, careful not to release more smoke than I'm capable of inhaling. Still, I lose some smoke – which I really can't afford to do. Again, I find it – chasing – a frustrating and dissatisfying experience. Then the lighter runs out. Fuck, I think. I search the office for a lighter, but find only matches; which means I need to strike the match, then pick up the straw and foil while it's burning. What I already found to be a difficult proccess was about to come even trickier. That's what I thought; but, it didn't for some reason. I juggled matchbox, foil and straw; sliding the match underneath my little pile of rocks. I expected them to combust over time, like they had with the lighter; instead the entire pile combusted immediately into a massive cloud of smoke. I wasn't ready, so I missed a lot of it, but it still fucked me up.

Another way smoking is different to injecting, you get less energy. The rush from smoking isn't like the rush from IV. I actually felt tired after chasing two dragons. Time was finally catching up with me. I lay down, re-assuring myself that I was just taking a rest.

7:00 am, Day 10

I wake up, in the office, at work, surrounded by bits of burnt alfoil and other suspicious items. By some miracle, I happened to get up before the handover staff arrived for the day shift; having neglected to set an alarm. I jump to my feet and fold all the bits and pieces into a large sheet of alfoil, shoving it deep into my bag. Then, I lie back down and go to sleep. I have weird dreams, of which I can only remember tiny fragments.

8:55 am,

Wake up to a knock on the door. The office smells – quite a lot – of burnt meth. I invite my replacement in, glancing around nervously for anything I might have forgotten to conceal. I am clearly in some kind of state. Thankfully, the only people who know what burnt amphetamines smell like, are those who indulge in recreational drugs. This middle-aged conservative-type who was taking over from me that morning, he suspected something was amiss; maybe he even suspected drugs: but, it was nothing more than that – a suspicion. He didn't ask me what the smell was, which is good because I wasn't prepared to lie; but the fact that he didn't ask is meaningful in itself. Upon walking into the unit, he raised his nose and sniffed. The action was very deliberate. He sniffed the air, then he looked at me straight in the eyes. I smiled: oblivious; innocent. And, that was all there was to it. If it had been the smell of burnt cannabis, I wouldn't have got away with it. Another benefit for the smoke or whack debate, I guess, but I'm not likely to repeat the experiment. When I was high on meth, it seemed like a good idea to smoke some rocks in the office; it's not a good idea. It's a paranoid claustrophobic environment of which I have no legal basis for refusing staff entry, regardless of the time of night; if someone, however unlikely, had dropped by – like management, to check on me – well, I would have been totally fucked. I was paranoid while smoking; I didn't enjoy it all that much; and, I could have lost my job.

I grab another six pack of beer on the way home. There is a small amount of meth left. One small shot and a pipes worth. I do the shot first, then spread the pipe out over the night. I don't sleep. Time flies by, and – before I know it – it is morning again.

6:00 am

There's something wrong with my right hand; my hands, they're different colours. The right one is bright red, and it looks slightly larger than the left. At first, I think I'm hallucinating. Then I look it up. I've done myself some serious damage again. It was that shot last night; I knew I shouldn't have had it. I should've taken a break. Fuck. What do I do? My arm, the one with the red hand, hurts like a cunt. Every time I move it, there is a dull ache from under the elbow; or, a sharp stabbing pain in my forearm, near the wrist. Fuck. I start to panic. I'm going to lose my arm, like in fucking Reqiuem. Shit. God damn, I'm an idiot. I deserve to lose my arm. No, I don't. Don't listen to that, God. I beg your forgiveness. Don't take my arm away from me. Don't let another vein collapse. I don't promise to do anything, if my request comes true; I always fail to live up to my promises, so I don't make them anymore. God prefers it that way. I've got work in a couple of hours; can't call in sick again. It's better, I figure, if I go to work and explain myself; make up some story about my arm. I realize, I'm going to be late; it's quarter to. I grab two beers and some other odds and ends. I roll a joint and put it in my pocket for the way back.When I get to the tram stop, something isn't right. The sun is rising. I got the fucking hour wrong. It's 6:45, not 7:45. Gives me some time to jerk off and have a shower before heading out.

Time dissolved: I don't know if I fell asleep, or what, but one hour felt like three minutes; the clock rolled forward from 6 to 7, and it was time to go.

8:00 am, Day 11

I am careful not to use my right arm. I shove the hand into my jacket pocket, to support it – like a sling would. When I get to work, I tell them I've injured my arm. I tell them I need to take threee days off. On the way home, I stop at the doctors for another medical certificate, excusing me from work. I have to wait for two hours for an appointment. I reluctantly show him my arm. I tell him not to judge me, and not to make any notes on my record. Then I roll up my sleeves. I say, β€œDo you see any difference between this arm and the other one? He says, β€œYes. The right one, it's red.”

I ask him, β€œWhat does that mean?”

He tells me, it's not a major concern. I haven't hit an artery. There is still blood flow to the hand. My veins are probably just swollen and/or clotted due to moderate vascular damage. He says, β€œLay off the drugs for a while.” I thank him, for not moralizing on the subject, and take my certificate.

I feel a bit better about my arm, until I get home.

2:00 pm

There is no circulation going to my fingers. I can see blood clots – or are they just freckles – in my veins. My fingertips are turning purple. The veins in my hand are struggling to deliver blood – particularly to my thumb, my index and my pinky finger. I can see the blood clots moving around, travelling back and forth through the network. Or maybe they're not moving. Maybe, they're freckles. I can't tell. I am hallucinating too much. My skin looks three dimensional again.

The knuckle on my index finger turns bright red. The vein leading up to it is so dark, it is almost black. The entire finger starts throbbing. There is no blood going to it. I rub the veins, desperately trying to dislodge the clot that is preventing blood flow. After five minutes, the finger returns to normal. This happens a number of times, with different fingers. Sometimes part of my hand too. I'm getting pins and needles from forearm to fingertips. Fucking thrombosis.

I remember, from when my grandfather was sick, that alcohol – and aspirin – thins the blood, aiding in the treatment of blood clots. So, I keep drinking, beer after beer. Until I run out. But the hand isn't getting any better. If anything, it's getting worse. It looks like an old man's hand. Like it has aged twenty years over the past 24 hours. I consider calling an ambulance, again. But – what are they going to do? Give me some aspirin? Fuck that.

I call the meth dealer. Despite the fact that I think having another shot will kill me, I have decided to do so. Meaning, I suppose, that I don't care if I die. As long as it looks like an accident. Suicide has never been an option. It would fuck up my family. They'd never recover. But, an overdose/heart attack as a result of drug use. Well, that's not their fault.

My dealer says he'll drop by at 7:30 pm.

There is some cream in my bedroom cupboard, that I used to use to treat swollen veins. Hirudoid cream. The tube is pretty much empty. I only manage to squeeze out a drop, which I use on the back of my right hand.

7:00 pm

Throw on some shoes and run down to the pharmacy, to get some aspirin and more hirudoid. The pharmacy is closed, so I get some beer instead. I find myself running out of breath; I am wheezing a bit, by the time I get home. The clots are in my lungs, I think. Quickly discarding the thought as paranoia. I haven't eaten or slept properly. Of course I'm running out of breath. I open a beer on the way home, and drink it – walking on the tram tracks.

As soon as I get in the door, I grab the empty tube of hirudoid and cut it open with a pair of nail scissors. Scrounge every last bit of cream I can find, rubbing it all over both hands, and my right arm. I purposely avoid putting any on my left arm, because I am going to use it in a minute when the dealer arrives.

7:35 pm

The dealer calls, five minutes after he's supposed to be here, to say he can't make it. I am relieved. I'm not going to die, after all. Then I realize, I still have the dregs from the bag. I loaded a 29 gauge with 20 units of water earlier in the day, hoping to get a decent shot out of the crystal remnants. But I don't want to use a 29 gauge. If I'm going to do this it has to be perfect. I can't risk introducing any more bacteria into my bloodstream. There's a bit of burnt residue in the bag from my fingers, so I'm going to have to wheel filter it. But I don't have any empty barrels.

I call Choper, the mobile needle and syringe service; they say they will be here in an hour.

I look at my hand. The veins are bulging and healthy, but my fingers are still reddish-purple. There is an open wound on my index finger tip from a bit of broken light bulb. I open it up and squeeze it. No blood. The circulation, in that arm, is still fucked.

I sit there, in a daze, waiting for Choper to arrive. I am hallucinating a lot. Much more than the peak of a strong acid trip. My red velvet curtains are descending rapidly into the floor like conveyor belts in maximum overdrive. I am seeing things, creatures, out of the corners of my eyes. I look at a dark patch on the carpet, that writhing with movement. It transforms, instantly, into a landscape. The carpet fibres form tables and chairs and people. I am looking down upon an olde time pub, full of men and women dressed in 19th century clothes, drinking and laughing, and generally having a good time. The detail is extraordinary. Like the landscapes I saw in the light bulbs, but much more complex. And animated. It is absolutely convincing. I scan the rest of the room, to verify that it is just a hallucination. I look at another patch of carpet, and I see nothing. No movement. No landscape. Just fibres. I look back at the dark patch, and see the olde time pub. A drunken man slaps his friend on the back and leans forward, exclaiming some silent – but, apparently hilarious – joke. Everybody laughs. They are all, these carpet fibre people, having such a good time.

8:45 pm

Choper calls to say they have arrived. I duck outside and make sure my neighbours aren't watching, before grabbing a 10 pack of 27 gauge, along with 2 empty barrels and 4 packs of sterilized water.

9:00 pm

I come back inside, and duck into the study to mix up my shot. I hit the light switch with my wounded index finger. The finger bleeds. I look at my hand. It is hardly red. I'm not going to lose a vein. Hooray. That would have really fucking depressed me. My fingertips are no longer purple. I am bleeding. Thank God, I am bleeding.

9:10 pm

Attach a wheel filter to a barrel, push some water through to moisten it. Detach. Mix up in my little baggy, to get the bits of crystal stuck to the plastic. The bag has a hole in it – fucking typical, dealers, seriously? - good thing I'm holding it over the spoon. I carefully mix it together and pour it into the spoon, then grind it up with the back of the syringe; add a bit of cotton; and suck it up into the barrel again – straight into the barrel, without a needle point. I chuck the wheel filter back on, along with a 25 gauge point; front dock it into the other empty barrel; empty the contents – through the filter – from one syringe to the other. Chuck a 27 gauge tip on the new barrel, flick it and push out excess air. Done. Took me less than 2 minutes. I go into the lounge, and sit down cross legged in front of the heater. I swab by fingers and the inner elbow of my left arm.

9:15 pm

I have to go through my bicep a little bit to get to one of my secondary veins – which, like most of them – is just a branch/continuation of the others. My muscles are small, so it's not an issue anyway. It hurts a little bit, but I don't let that phase me; I'm concentrating; this has to be perfect. I register the vein and return the contents of the now-bloody syringe into my arm. Get a little rush off it. Nothing spectacular; about what I was expecting from a dreg shot, really.

Sit down and watch a movie called β€œKids”. It's supposed to be shocking. I don't find it shocking. I drink beer and smoke many joints. I eat a packet of pistachio nuts.

Two or three hours later, sometime around midnight, I fall asleep.

11:00 am, Day 12

Wake up on the floor, in front of the heater. I feel like absolute shit. The drugs, the lack of sleep, and the lack of food; they've all caught up to me at once. My body aches all over. I am severely dehydrated. I turn off the heater and stumble into the kitchen for some apple juice.

Examine my hands and arms; the right is still a bit darker than the left, but – otherwise – they look, and feel, fine.

I still haven't done my assignments for university. I'm going to fail if I don't get them done in the next 48 hours.

12:00 pm

Call my dealer. He tells me, he'll be back on tonight – sometime around 6:00 pm. This gives me six hours to eat, bathe, and gather supplies. I haven't had a shower or a bath for three days. There are no clean clothes or towels in the house. Need to get some more hirudoid cream, and eat as much food as I can stomach. Maybe even get an assignment done. The first draft of my alcohlics anonymous article is, maybe, half done. I wanted to attend one last meeting, from a different perspective; one last meeting, on meth: to complete the narrative. Tomorrow; Thursday's meeting: this will bring my AA research to an end. I have to go to the dentist, in the morning, as well.

I write for two hours. The article is nearly completed now. It's going to be excellent. I've been thinking about how I should write it constantly, my thoughts rocket-fueled by meth. When I submit the draft for workshopping, it will be almost twice the maximum length for the assignment. Sort of like how this is twice the maximum length of most of bluelight's attention span. If you're still reading this, thank you for having the patience to stick with me. I'm trying to do something different. It's not too often that you get the opportunity to read such a long trip report. I'm up to something like 15,000 words, and it's all true. Something I find frustrating about people, is their inability to be open with me. Many times, I have revealed my deepest darkest secrets; and it always backfires. They keep theirs hidden. When they think something about me, they don't say it. They laugh when they are not amused. They smile, when they dislike me. I don't understand why people aren't just honest with eath other. That's kind of the point of this document. I've tried not to misrepresent anything, or exagerate or under-exagerate. It's not the most complimentary depiction of me, but that's okay. Unlike the rest of the world, I'm not particularly concerned with how people perceive me; just what I can get away with.

3:30 pm

I call my dealer. He says he'll be around at 7:30 pm. I have my doubts.

Go to the pharmacy and get some hirudoid cream. I miss the tram, so I walk home. As I wander, I crack open the tube of cream and spread it on the backs of my hands. This guy yells from his ute something or other about me being a faggot. He thinks I'm putting on moisturizer or something. I don't bother to inform him that I have obstructed my veins by slamming an absurd amount of meth into them, in a short period of time; because I don't care what he thinks. I don't even turn to look at him; I just wave him off with a tired gesture and continue on my way. I feel sorry for him, a bit. I always do – feel sorry – for these fight-types. I've been friends with them, before. They're invariable depressed, but completely unaware of it. This guy yelling at people from his car, he needs therapy more than I do. He's seriously maladjusted. Poor guy, probably been utterly miserable his whole life. Probably hates people that are seemingly wealthier than him, because he resents his meager existence. Probably harbours homophobic thoughts towards men who are even slightly affeminate, because he is uncomfortable with his own sexuality; and, too repressed to experiment. The average Aussie bloke is an outdated concept. These guys that adhere to what used to be the cultural norm, twenty years ago; they're behind the times. Maintaining outdated cultural standards makes as much sense – less actually – than keeping Latin alive. Personally, I've never been that fascinated by cultural differences. They are all arbitrary. I don't see that they are good or bad. They just are.

I grab some more beer on the way home. Sit on my porch drinking it, listening to Nick Drake. All three of my cats are sitting around me, purring. My disabled neighbour walks past. She looks at me, layer upon layer of bags under her eyes. I wave. She stops and says something. I take off my headphones. β€œWhat?” She repeats it, something about a bunch of kids in Box Hill teasing her, asking to be her boyfriend. We talk for a while; her standing at my fenceline, me sitting on the porch drinking Carlton Draught with my cats. Then, she invites me for coffee later in the week, says β€œGoodbye, neighbour!” and dissappears down her driveway.

8:00 pm

The room is boiling, on account of all the heaters in the house being on for an hour. I sit down in my armchair, and wrap a tourniquet around my right arm. I'm not entirely sure why I use the right, since it's the one with the most pronounced circulation problems; and I've already collapsed the cephalic, which is the largest under-elbow surface vein. I think, sometimes, I keep shooting just to prove to myself that my veins are functional. I go for the smaller of the two veins, because I think the larger is damaged; but I'm not sure. I get blood, and empty a bit back in. But it hurts a bit. I'm nervous, and drunk, and scattered. I re-register, to discover that I'm not in the vein. I don't want to dig around. I have to be careful. I pull out and swap the tourni over to the other arm. Swab quickly and try the secondary, again, behind my bicep muscle. I'm not getting it. I pull out and try again. Nothing. I give up. If I keep going, I'm going to seriously injure myself. That's it. 80 mg, now reserved for oral consumption. I drink a bit of water, then put the syringe in my fridge, and mix up another large shot. I don't weigh it. It looks like 70 or 80. Since it is unlikely I will be able to have too many hits, given the state of my veins, I need to make sure that – when they work – they are large enough to get me where I want to be. I go and sit back down in the lounge. The heater is still blazing. It is like a sauna. I put tourniquets on both arms, and leave them loose. I try to hit the main vein on the right arm. The big one. Doesn't work, but I get a tiny bit of blood. I swap to the small one, that registered briefly earlier. No good. I tighten the tourni on the left arm. Pull the plunger back, to clear the needle, and spray a couple of units out to make sure it's flowing; doing this prolong the use of a needle, despite whether or not it contains blood. I don't like to do it. I hit the main vein in my left arm. Pulling back on the plunger is difficult. I get an air bubble at the plunger end of the pick, meaning in the barrel has coagulated. I move extremely slowly, so as not to increase pressure on the vein. I get blood, and empty three quarters of the hit. Bingo. Fucking eureka. I check all 5 of my usable veins. None have collapsed; I go on to live another day.

9:05 pm

I want to have one last shot. Just one more. After that, I need to set fire to the rest of the syringes. Or contaminate them. Or break off the needles. This must be the last shot, or I'm going to do irreversible damage. I think I can get away with one more. I mix it up. Go back to the lounge. I am careful not to overdo it, not to get impatient. I try a couple of spots, get a bit of blood, and a big clot. This dark chunk of red shit flies into the barrel and settles down near the needle point. If I shoot it back into my bloodstream, it might go straight into my heart and kill me. I pull out, turn the needle upside down; and flick it, sending the clot tumbling down to the plunger side. I make sure the flow is okay, and try one last spot; but, it doesn't work. I have to give up. It's better to give up than fuck myself up. That's it. All of my usable surface veins need time to repair themselves. None of them collapsed. The thrombosis will go away, eventually. While this hasn't been the healthiest twelve days of my life, I have officially survived it. My veins, however, can clearly no longer sustain prolonged needle binges; I need to give each vein time to recover, before re-using it.


?:?? pm

I attempt two more shots, but I can't find a usable vein in the crook of my arm. I'm not going to start using my legs or my hands or my femoral vein. Even if I collapse all the superficial veins in the crook, I can live a normal life; the same cannot be said for any other part of the body. My hands continue to swell up, red, and then return to normal; particularly the right one. I am very careful with both arms. I do not flex the muscles; I let myself lie limp. Every now and then I check them, to make sure they are still there; and am relieved to discover that none have collapsed.

After the sun rises, I go to bed and quickly fall asleep.

8:15 pm, Day 13

Wake up, feeling absolutely horrible. You can sustain yourself in a cycle of drugs without sleep or food for a prolonged period of time. When you break that cycle – after you finally give in and go to sleep – you experience all of the negative effects you've been avoiding for the past week, or month. It all catches up with you. I feel like absolute shit.

It's been nearly 24 hours since I had my last shot. My hands are looking a bit better. I eat some food, and hydrate myself, but I can't shake the aftermath. The house is a fucking disaster area. My head is full of images of veins and blood and memories of hallucinations. My eyes hurt, as if I've received a fist in both. I have lost a lot of weight. I can feel my cheekbones, sharp against my skin. My eyesocket has even lost weight. I find bones on my face that I never knew existed.

11:00 pm

I have a shot. Delivery is fine. Blood is flowing okay, in the right arm. Feel much better. All the negative effects are gone. I open a beer and roll a joint.

2:00 pm

I have trouble with the second shot. Get some blood in the chamber, but I don't give up. I keep going past the three minute mark. The blood in the syringe has thickened when I find myself, again, properly inside a vein in the left arm. I inject slowly. There is no pain, or discomfort. All good.

7:15 pm, Day 14

Forgot I had a dentist appointment; my first in over five years. I have a bath, and a shave. Grab my keys, and my headphones. Head out the door; and jump on a tram. I walk from the tram stop, listening to music, and smoking a joint. When I arrive, I am extremely fucked up.

8:30 am

The waiting room is an anxious environment. I'm not sure if I should say something to the woman behind the counter. I try and smile, as we establish eye contact, but it comes out all wrong. Eventually, I approach the bench. She gives me a clipboard, with a form to fill out. I am finding it difficult to write. In the section that requires my name and address, I have to cross out a couple of mistakes. When it comes to medical history, and what not, I am confronted by a question.

β€œAre you on any medication?”

After some hesitation, I write β€œNo.”

Being in a dentist's chair is weird after not visiting for 6 or 7 years. It's a creepy place, the dentist. Particularly when you're coming down from two weeks of prolonged methamphetamine abuse on top of being hungover and stoned.

My dentist, an Indian woman, tilts the chair back. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go with it. Awkwardly, I lie back. My body is stiff. I am in an odd position. My head isn't on the headrest.

She's about to confirm that I have gum disease; that I need surgery. I can feel it. And, it's my fault. I don't have anyone to blame but myself.

She peers around inside my mouth with a little mirror, pointing out that my gums are a little inflamed but otherwise okay; she doesn't even think I have any cavities. I almost don't believe it. I was expecting to hear β€œbone loss” and β€œskin grafting”. Not even a cavity? Is it all in my head? The veins, the teeth; everything?

Maybe my hypochondria extends further than I thought. HIV and cancer are a constant concern, but I recognize them as irrational fears. Perhaps all my fears are irrational?

The dentist, she asks me, β€œDo you want a shot, for the pain?” She's going to remove the tartar from my gums.

I remember the clipboard. β€œAre you on any other medication?” Maybe the meth and the anaesthetic will have a bad reaction. I tell her, β€œNo. I'll be okay.”

This probably goes without saying, but don't go to the dentist when you're high. Lying back on a chair, while two people poke around inside your mouth. The sounds of suction and gurgling and power tools. Metal hooks milimetres from your inflamed gums. It's not a good place to be when your head is fucked up. My face distorts into a horrified expression. I keep imagining her slipping and cutting a big hole in me. I keep wondering, β€œDo they know I'm stoned?”

The dentist, and the dental hygeinist, keep asking, β€œAre you sure you're okay; are you sure you don't want an injection?” Like, they're seriously concerned about something.

I try to calm myself down. I try to relax my face. I insist, β€œI am okay.”

On the way home, I call work and extend my sick leave for another three days; this covers me for the whole weekend.

10:30 pm Day 15

Last shot. Get a blood clot. Accidentally slam it.

11:45 pm

Go to The Auburn to get beer. Veins hurting. Sitting out in the rain, on the way back waiting for the last tram. A taxi driver picks me up, asks me if I want a lift for free since he's on his way home. I don't bother asking where he's going. End up in the wrong suburb. Drink a beer. Smoke a cigarette. I catch the tram as far as I can. Put the beer in my trenchcoat pocket before getting on, then forget about it and sit down. It spills onto the inner lining of the coat. I have to walk through the rain, soaked with beer, carrying the remaining drinks with my fucked up arms. I swap hands back and forth, to reduce the impact of the bag's weight on my veins. It's Friday night; too busy to call a taxi. Stop for a burger on the long walk home. I only have a couple of coins. I have trouble determining what I can afford. I change my order six times. The girl behind the counter is amused. I keep walking, stopping frequently to rest my aching arms. Eventually, I get home and smoke another joint. I need to remember to take a joint with me everywhere I go.

12:30 pm Day 17

I wake up on the floor. There is a black stain on the carpet, in front of my face. Smells like burnt meth. Other similar stains are littered across the ground. Instantly, as soon as they day has begun, I feel depressed. Every time I see these stains, I'm going to react negatively. And I don't need any more negativity, especially as soon as I wake up. I grab a pair of nail scissors from the coffee table and crouch down on the ground, trimming the shag down until the stains are almost gone.
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Sep 2, 2010
Elsternwick, VIC
This report makes my kidneys hurt whilst simultaneously craving a thick shot...

Hope you're doing ok mate. This is wonderfully written, really dig it. I really feel as if I am observing everything through your eyes and contemplating it through your mind.


Sep 9, 2013
I know this may be off topic but new on here and need advise regarding the mixing of naproxen NSAIDs and meth. Are both blood thinners? Usually have high bp controlled by beta blockers but know that aspirin is a known method to reduce chance of heart attack. .does this hold true mixing the two mentioned above? Only use it on a prn basis for the muscle pain. 250mg naproxen.I take a Low dose on both. Please some advice or input. .?


Apr 13, 2014
I have done meth for the past 3 years on and off but I dont understand how people say it keeps you up. I mean I have a hard time trying to fall asleep but I always end up sleeping. Idk I stay up all the time with out drugs so maybe thats why I don't think it keeps me up


🎨 ARTministrator 🎨
Staff member
Feb 8, 2006
In the mountains
Wow, expertly written story (I don't even want to call it a report). One of the best I've ever read, I feel like I want to comment further but I have to process it, I spent at least an hour reading it (though I am high).


Mar 4, 2015
I know this is a couple years old but I have to say it's a great report. Details like skin looking "three-dimensional" are so familiar to me... it's been many years since I experienced anything like this and this report takes me back.. if you read this, ForEverAfter, great writing.i really enjoyed it (part 2 is my favorite).


Jan 13, 2015
Wow, That is some mad writing, I've always struggled with the english language but man I wish I could put words together like you, it's like it was extracted from a best selling book or something haha.

I can only relate slightly, I have no access to methamphetamine in my area (that I know of) but had similar times on plain old amphetamine.

The hallucinations are, maybe less intense but still there. The brain can do crazy things when deprived of sleep, even with no drugs, paranoia is the worst but can be fun sometimes, in the right environment.


Jan 16, 2012
Thanks for the responses.
I appreciate the feedback.

Haven't used a needle for 15-16 months, but I will again some day.


Mar 7, 2015
You are a good writer. Hope you slept already and you are ok now) Take it easy)


Mar 18, 2015
Does anyone know how long alcohol stays in the system? For a piss test. I went 2 days without and stillcame back positive.


Jan 6, 2013
Wow. Right now, I've only managed to read up to Day 4 - 5:30am. I have to get up early tomorrow so I have to hit the sack here pretty soon.

I got to say though, I am right there with you in regards to amphetamines improving creative writing, and creativity overall. I have always been someone who must try and use perfect grammar and vocabulary when writing papers and you are right there with me. Aside from texting, where occasional slang is fine, I have to be consistent in pertaining to using perfect and proper grammar. I've always been like this.

Amphetamines have a special place in those that benefit IMMENSELY from it from every angle across the board. There is a cult of people in which amphetamines literally open up that dormant place in the brain and are able to make magic happen. I am one of those people. It is seriously amazing what they do and how well they do it. It totally makes sense when some people say, "I finally now know what it's like to feel NORMAL."

Understand that when people say this it's because they've never been able to fully grasp their full cognitive capabilities. It's not like we somehow developed a new area of our brain where there is this secret element that is giving us special powers. No. Rather, we are now able to finally utilize this one side of our brain that has been in the darkness and is now activated. This effect in a sense is what makes us feel "normal". We finally now get what it's like to be on the same playing field as the rest of society. At least this is how it makes me feel and it's a fckin God-send to those who have been struggling to retain and understand concepts during lectures.

Everything is finally at what they should be, running on all cylinders.

Now, of course there is a fine line. Every action has an equal or opposite reaction. With amphetamines, more is not necessarily always better. And in most cases, it really isn't. Bottom line is this, using amphetamines can be extremely helpful when done right, extremely. The key is to watch yourself and understand what your body is telling you. I can go into way better detail but for now that's all I have.


Aug 9, 2015
Good on you! I understand exactly what you mean by "I will again some day". I've been off and on the needle for the past 12 years, since I was 20, having a little turn now but in a month or two I'll be back to 1 or 2 times a month for 6 months, then play for a month or two again. The arrogance of never saying never for me is the fact people around me have such a stereotypical opinion of IDU and have no idea I secretly lie within that world. Fuck them I feel, if they have to abide by a formed societies perception and can't even recognise I may be a user, they're not proparly educated and can go on in their ignorance that junkies all fall within certain mentalities and behaviours. I can't help the mindset of loving the neddle (meth only really) because they all have no idea, some even surprised I smoke a little, so obviously their formed schemas are wrong. I've completed a double major in psychology and communication and half way through a graduate diploma in business with 70 - 80% all done on meth, achieving an A- overall. I'm quite attractive, although the wolf whistles are slowing down at age 32 lol, maintain an ideal weight and generally perceived as very well together mentally. Although in saying all of this I am very well aware of the negativities of using (although I won't go into detail). I can procrastinate my studies and have internal fights mentally with myself about the justification for my next shot. Another aspect of your writing that I felt connected too, is your ability of being very self aware. Being capable of analysing yourself with an unbiased, emotionally affected option when required is not something I feel many are able to do. Your writing was well developed and extremely addictive, I read from start to finish in 4 hours. I would love to read an update on your studies and personal life is after you consciously decided to start reconnecting with people on a personal level again. All the best with your future endeavours and thank you for the excellent piece of honest writing, being able to emotionally relate to some of those drug psychosis moments, along with apprieciating your level of self perception and admiring your ability in developing a piece of writing was an overall pleasure! There are other areas I related to or appreciated (adding alcohol and thrombosis) but I'm not in my cognitively best state to go into a properly well written analysis. All the best and I hope life's working out well for you!!!!!!
Also there's a couple of experiences I've had, such mixing large shots with being heavily intoxicated and the high thats resulted, that I wouldn't mind your thoughts on if your still posting.....
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Jan 16, 2012
Thanks again for the responses... I've had so many private messages over the years about this report, and so much positive feedback in real life, I'm going to clean it up and try to get it published somewhere. It's crazy reading it, now. My life has changed so much. I had some meth earlier this year - half a gram - and I couldn't finish it. Left the last three syringes in the fridge for a month... I really wish I wrote when I was on heroin. Scoring on the streets is crazy. Rehab was crazy... I'm really glad I have this part of my life, fucked up as it was, down on paper... I'm not going to change it, for publication. Just correct spelling and make grammar a little bit more coherent.

I will always love Junk.
Not any particular drug.
No. I love all drugs.
I love dependence.
I love addiction.
I love insanity.

Junk isn't even about drugs: to love junk means you embrace freedom, while utterly disregarding your own life.
I miss the same thing about heroin, meth and alcohol: it's the self-destruction; it's that (socially acceptable) suicide.


Mar 17, 2015
The Netherlands
Part 4 was mentioned above here... That's good to know, that there's more...

Ex-Bluelighter, it says. Why is that?

Too late again I guess. I was too late not so long ago, finally finding out about the Cardiacs and then learning about Tim's condition. But it's probably not like ForEverAfter did concerts here, right?

Does anywbody know what came from the manuscript (or what's in some process, still? Stuff like that takes a year I guess.)

Just wanted to say hi, add +1 to the people telling you it's great writing. But considering that ex-bluelight thing, this is pointless. I'll go find part 3.