There are certain pleasures in the world from which we cannot escape. As the Chronicles of Narnia teach us, there is a Turkish Delight for everyone, an irresistible, untamable, highly individualized urge. We are prone, some of us, to a wild hunger, an addiction and that the genesis of that is always desire, attraction unchecked – which turns into howling need, then deadly obsession and that what we love most becomes the weapon we use for our own self immolation.
There are certain roads to ruin that can be avoided by living an examined life. In my own all too carefully examined life, I find that those who have taken the highway to hell, only to pull off the road and make a u-turn, are more fully developed and interesting souls. I like my friends who have had been through the fire. They understand what it feels like to burn and without exception, they are warmer for it. The heart that is capable of generating heat without danger of spontaneous combustion is one that is dearer and far more precious than a cold pacemaker.
I am a veritable Smorgasbord of ‘I want’ and a zoo of destructive monkeys on my back throwing their shit everywhere. Call me the Hof Brau of Heat. King Moneyshit Meister. I cannot stand next to the stove because I will continually burn myself. I am an addict. To everything. Not just substances, although I have had my share of that. Spending years putting money through mail slots waiting for the precious baggie to spit out, like an ATM for the permanently strung out. I wasn’t just addicted to the drug(s), which were varied and too numerous to name, for my drug of choice was just drugs – anything that would get me away from myself and the moment. I was a slave to copping. The high would start with the drugs in my hand, the solid truth that good things come in small packages. The drugs that would be combination dreamaker, lovetaker, heartbreaker – and yes, I messed around with them – oh no. The jones, the real smack was not the chemicals themselves, but the euphoria of the endless possibilities set off by the acquisition of the substance. What you could be, what you would be, what you dream of being, what would. what could. what dreams. There was no need to do them, of course I always did, but that is beside the point. The bag was the most exciting part of the exchange. The bag was the power, the life force, the reason to live another day – terrible irony, for it was also what was killing me. I stopped doing drugs to give into another passion, alcohol. Like that is trading up. Alcohol really did almost kill me and I thought it was kind of funny. I considered the film “Leaving Las Vegas” a comedy. Nic Cage definitely captured my glee and abandon, with a shopping cart full of bottles and a skip in his step, on his way to meet his Maker. That film is like fucking “Fantasia” to me, a glorious world that I can only yearn for, but never live to see, for it isn’t real, at least it can’t be, for the day that it becomes my reality, I cease to be real and begin to be dead.
The sickest and saddest thing about drugs, alcohol included as it is the Meanest Motherfucker of all drugs, is that it is a lie. My love, my dream, my possibilities – so numerous, endless, impossibly beautiful – are a lie. Liars all – because they make you lie to yourself, your friends, lovers, families, various strangers on the street. Not taking anything, living cold and hard in real time, can sometimes fucking suck. FUCKING SUCK FUCKING SUCK FUCKING SUCK. But at the very least, it is the truth. That is what makes me sad about all the people in jail because of drugs. Those poor folks were just lied to and they have committed the crime of believing. Imagine doing life, being on death row, for believing a lie. Imagine overdosing on a lie, losing your leg for a lie, losing your mind for a lie, losing your life for a lie. All the other loved ones we have lost to lies. Lies lies lies – they’re gonna get ya.
I am still an addict, and I use whatever is in front of me but at least they aren’t drugs. At least I cannot drink them. I use little white lies now. Lies lite. Less satisfying, less deadly. Abuse of everything is my raison d’etre, and I am not ever going to change, but the things that I use and get loaded on are a little different in my old age.
I got a new Daddy. I am Ebay’s bitch.