I guarantee that I will update soon about all that is going on up here in the Windy City. It's been a whirlwind thus far, and it's consumed damn near all of my time, but I have every intention of updating shortly. Stay tuuuned!
:)
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
"Your class, your caste, your country, sect, your name, or your tribe..."
I love this band, this song, and this video entirely.
"This method acting, well, I call that living..."
Main Entry: Method Acting
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: a dramatic technique in which actors identify as closely as possible with the character played by correlating experiences from their personal lives to the character.
I've spent the past week going through the motions, so to speak, seeing as nothing really matters much around here considering I leave in a mere few days. Today hasn't necessarily been a good day. The panic of it all has slowly begun to settle in, and it's seriously freaking me out. It's cold feet, I suppose. I've begun to fear leaving and this risk. Have I made the wrong choice? Would it be best if i simply just decided to stay and work it out somehow down here? I know the answers to those questions, and I know, deep down, that taking off is indeed what is best for me, but that doesn't take away from the fact that there is much self-doubt and fear. Nightmares of failure. In my all too comfortable self-deprecating fashion, I feel as if I've failed too much here in my life, and I need to succeed significantly soon, or this'll all only get worse. Sincere, unabated happiness is what I'm looking for, and while I doubt tremendously that it truly exists, I'm just going to say that that's my natural pessimism attempting to poison hope and it's endless glee.
I honestly feel that I'm not running away from anyone or anything, whether that be myself or others, and if you think that I am, well, you can go suck a dick. I do know that I'm looking for something, though, and it's that unabated happiness, which is indeed why I'm doing this. This is what I want to do, and if, in doing what it is that I want, I can find happiness, than more power to me. Could I possibly be wrong? Absolutely, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I will be wrong. All I know is that I feel it's worth the shot, worth the effort, and if it doesn't work than at least I know that I tried. It's out there, the unabated, and it may be across the street, across town, across the country, or across the world, but I do feel that it's out there, and I'll find it, through living, loving, and trying my best to be as best as I intend.
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: a dramatic technique in which actors identify as closely as possible with the character played by correlating experiences from their personal lives to the character.
I've spent the past week going through the motions, so to speak, seeing as nothing really matters much around here considering I leave in a mere few days. Today hasn't necessarily been a good day. The panic of it all has slowly begun to settle in, and it's seriously freaking me out. It's cold feet, I suppose. I've begun to fear leaving and this risk. Have I made the wrong choice? Would it be best if i simply just decided to stay and work it out somehow down here? I know the answers to those questions, and I know, deep down, that taking off is indeed what is best for me, but that doesn't take away from the fact that there is much self-doubt and fear. Nightmares of failure. In my all too comfortable self-deprecating fashion, I feel as if I've failed too much here in my life, and I need to succeed significantly soon, or this'll all only get worse. Sincere, unabated happiness is what I'm looking for, and while I doubt tremendously that it truly exists, I'm just going to say that that's my natural pessimism attempting to poison hope and it's endless glee.
All the world's a stage,What I've come to realize in the past few days is how I somehow developed a variety of masks, in a sense, depending on where I was, who I was with, and what my intentions were. It was a sad realization, I must admit, but still a necessary realization nonetheless. What seemed most significant in all of it, though, was the admiration I had for but one of my facades. I can be angry, aggressive, damaging both to myself and others, and blatantly disrespectful and kamikaze. But I can be sweet, charming, content, and generally positive, caring, and hopeful. While I can display different aspects of myself, different masks to the same people, there's still a true face beneath it all. It's amazing when one really stands still and acknowledges who they are, or who they have been. Sweet, charming, loving. In love, out of love, content, though. A smile, the smile of mine I love as much as they did, he vanished for a bit, at least the most sincere of smiles I have in my arsenal, disappeared. While I can say that I did indeed try hard to find him and bring him back, I knew as well as the next that I was looking in all the wrong places, whether it was at the back of a little bag of white love, the bottom of a murky bottle, or in the drunken debauchery of a one night stand. I looked so hard, tried my best, but deep down I knew it was a fruitless endeavor, and I was in no way going to find what it was that I was looking for. So this must bear the question, will I find it? I sincerely hope and feel that I will. I must, in my opinion. Am I leaving so as to do so? Perhaps, but not necessarily in the way that one would immediately think.
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
I honestly feel that I'm not running away from anyone or anything, whether that be myself or others, and if you think that I am, well, you can go suck a dick. I do know that I'm looking for something, though, and it's that unabated happiness, which is indeed why I'm doing this. This is what I want to do, and if, in doing what it is that I want, I can find happiness, than more power to me. Could I possibly be wrong? Absolutely, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I will be wrong. All I know is that I feel it's worth the shot, worth the effort, and if it doesn't work than at least I know that I tried. It's out there, the unabated, and it may be across the street, across town, across the country, or across the world, but I do feel that it's out there, and I'll find it, through living, loving, and trying my best to be as best as I intend.
We need a record of our failures.With that, I bid you adieu. Be well.
Yes, we must document our love.
I have sat too long in my silence.
I have grown too old in my pain.
To shed this skin, be born again,
it starts with an ending.
So, thank you, friends, for the time we shared.
My love stays with you like sunlight and air.
Oh, how I truly wish I could keep hanging around here
But my joy is covering me. Soon, I will disappear.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Anywhere the wind blows...
Well, there's been another development in this little story of mine, a development that might actually add a little more intrigue to it all. I've decided that it may actually be in my best interest to up and move to Chicago. That being said, I leave in exactly one week.
Considering that I left my job, am single, 24, and would have to begin again and rebuild here in Miami, why not try and do the same in a big new city? When I was a kid, I always thought it would be wonderful if I upped and moved to a big city and lived that big city kind of life. Well, here's my chance to do just that, and this may actually be the last chance I have. While Miami is a unique city all on it's own, it's not necessarily what I'm looking for. I never intended to spend the rest of my life here.
I will say, it's a bit frightening. I literally have a guitar, a few bags of clothes, a place to crash for a bit, and about $700. This is probably the biggest risk I've ever taken in my life, but I sincerely feel that the only way I'll fail is through a lack of effort. If I really want it to work, if I want to be there, to do this, then it's all on me. That doesn't make it any less frightening. I know two people in the entirety of Chicago. What if I don't find a job before I run out of money? What if no one likes me? What if my thin self freezes over like or blows away? What if, what if, what if! A horribly tumultuous series of thoughts that only leads to self-doubt and chain smoking.
I have dreams too, though, and those are kind of exciting. But I think I'll keep those to myself for now. I'd rather not jinx them.
I've been procrastinating a bit lately. This move isn't as fantastical as one might think. It's not simply a pack a bag and go kind of deal. Pack my apartment, sell my things, move everything out, get rid of my car, have a goodbye shindig (gonna be awesome!)Sort out what I feel I might need immediately and what can be shipped to me later, once I'm grounded and settled. Fit all the said things I'll need into the lightest, least amount of bags possible (fingers crossed for two!) What I've slowly begun to realize is that I will indeed miss more people and things, places and circumstances, than I had originally thought. While I knew that there were people I'd miss, it's more than that. Happy Hour at Bougie's with the boys, Cervezas, impromptu gatherings in my convenient little studio apartment. My apartment. There are a tremendous amount of memories in that apartment, more so than in any apartment I have ever lived in. Fights, laughs, tears, smiles, and the usual dichotomy of a life lived alone. The girls, my mates, the late night/early morning binges, the pretzelled legs and long embraces with particulars (and abstractions). The nostalgia will be there, as it always has, and I relish it and it's sometimes comforting, sometimes frightening tendencies. We are what we've done, who we've acquainted, and I will never forget, whether that's a good thing or not.
One week until another place, another bed, another time zone! A new method of being, a clean slate, a fresh start. Anonymity like none which I have encountered thus far in my strange life. Excited and scared, happy and sad, desperate and fulfilled. Let's see what happens.
Here's to hoping for the best.
Considering that I left my job, am single, 24, and would have to begin again and rebuild here in Miami, why not try and do the same in a big new city? When I was a kid, I always thought it would be wonderful if I upped and moved to a big city and lived that big city kind of life. Well, here's my chance to do just that, and this may actually be the last chance I have. While Miami is a unique city all on it's own, it's not necessarily what I'm looking for. I never intended to spend the rest of my life here.
I will say, it's a bit frightening. I literally have a guitar, a few bags of clothes, a place to crash for a bit, and about $700. This is probably the biggest risk I've ever taken in my life, but I sincerely feel that the only way I'll fail is through a lack of effort. If I really want it to work, if I want to be there, to do this, then it's all on me. That doesn't make it any less frightening. I know two people in the entirety of Chicago. What if I don't find a job before I run out of money? What if no one likes me? What if my thin self freezes over like or blows away? What if, what if, what if! A horribly tumultuous series of thoughts that only leads to self-doubt and chain smoking.
I have dreams too, though, and those are kind of exciting. But I think I'll keep those to myself for now. I'd rather not jinx them.
I've been procrastinating a bit lately. This move isn't as fantastical as one might think. It's not simply a pack a bag and go kind of deal. Pack my apartment, sell my things, move everything out, get rid of my car, have a goodbye shindig (gonna be awesome!)Sort out what I feel I might need immediately and what can be shipped to me later, once I'm grounded and settled. Fit all the said things I'll need into the lightest, least amount of bags possible (fingers crossed for two!) What I've slowly begun to realize is that I will indeed miss more people and things, places and circumstances, than I had originally thought. While I knew that there were people I'd miss, it's more than that. Happy Hour at Bougie's with the boys, Cervezas, impromptu gatherings in my convenient little studio apartment. My apartment. There are a tremendous amount of memories in that apartment, more so than in any apartment I have ever lived in. Fights, laughs, tears, smiles, and the usual dichotomy of a life lived alone. The girls, my mates, the late night/early morning binges, the pretzelled legs and long embraces with particulars (and abstractions). The nostalgia will be there, as it always has, and I relish it and it's sometimes comforting, sometimes frightening tendencies. We are what we've done, who we've acquainted, and I will never forget, whether that's a good thing or not.
One week until another place, another bed, another time zone! A new method of being, a clean slate, a fresh start. Anonymity like none which I have encountered thus far in my strange life. Excited and scared, happy and sad, desperate and fulfilled. Let's see what happens.
Here's to hoping for the best.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
"Throw myself into my injuries and close my eyes."
I miss this band, circa Pass The Flask. They were so much better then.
Exhibit A: The Failed.
Right, so, as I stated last night/early this morning (if you want to get all technical and such), I am very unemployed right now. About as unemployed as one can possibly get.
I suppose this calls for an explanation of sorts, an answer to the potential inquiries, but there's really nothing to say. I was unhappy at my last job, unhappy with how things were being run, with the focus on all the things that had yet to get done, rather than the things that had gotten done, and with the maniacal nature of the industry in which I found myself working in. Not to say that I was some sort of gift from God that had never erred, I assure you, I surely did. Hell, the fact that I was even still employed long enough to quit was baffling beyond measure. But, after a bit of a heated exchange with the owner, I decided that I no longer wanted to stand for being unappreciated and underpaid. I left, and while it might not have been the smart decision to make financially, it was indeed a decision I made for my own well-being. I've gone a bit loopy in the past few months, and I feel this is a necessary step in the quest to end this strangely unearned quarter-life crisis. Perhaps I beat myself up a bit (fuck it, I definitely do), but I could have done better with the opportunities that were given to me. I built up something wonderful here in Miami, and in the past 7 months I've slowly but surely let everything go. It wasn't necessarily something I did consciously, rather it was an unconscious mix of bad decisions, ill-spent emotional investments, and an entirely encompassing disregard for myself and my overall well-being and happiness. Thusly, I have found myself a bit bored, a bit broke, a bit downtrodden, but breathing.
I'd like to believe that everything will be okay, that I'll grow from this, and all that strangely repetitive hoopla that is always fed to the lesser fortunate by those who don't really care to hear about what you got going on. Simply put, I decided on this, and I'm really not sure how it's going to end. I put myself in this situation. While it sucks and is tremendously unfortunate, my rash emotions and inability to deal with what might not necessarily be right got me here. It's my burden to bear, and I'll bear it. What other choice do I have? If I've gotten this far alive, I might as well see it through to the end.
So, what is one to do? Everything is changing now, and I will admit that I feel a bit pathetic. I'm 24, not 16. At what point must one grow up and deal with the monotony and dreariness of the adult world, seeing as that's where the money is and, let's be honest, we all need a bit of cash in our pockets so as to have a bigger grin? What happened to all those dreams, to become something better, doing something that would indeed make us overwhelmingly happy? Did they vanish? Absolutely not. I'm sure they're there somewhere, but they're hard to see, buried beneath responsibility and the fear of not achieving that which people felt you were meant to achieve. There's still a bit of Pan in these bones, I can assure you of that, but at what point must one sacrifice all that they were in order to grow, adapt, and evolve into that which we seemingly must be?
It's a bit lonely, I'll tell you that. Seeing as I have no money to waste on booze and bits with the mates (and the usual birds), I consistently find myself alone with bootlegged films, Expedition Week on NGC, and Russell Brand's autobiography. I've still some grub left, which is fantastic, but that'll go away too. I'm alright, though.
I do fear the day where I'll once again have to make that monumental decision, the one that every broke man fears... food or cigarettes? Can't afford both, can you, ol' boy?!
I miss that naturally happy self I once was, where I'd wake up happy not because I had a reason to be, but just because I was. I'm sure I'm forgetting a lot of what was going on, though, and I'm sure I wasn't as happy as I remember feeling, but fuck it, I remember smiling often, and I miss that. I was happier once, and I sure as Hell want to get back there.
Boo-hoo, eh? Fucking pity parties. They're always so damn depressing.
Well, seeing as I'm not properly intrigued enough to proceed in any endearing fashion with this bit of writing, I'll end it here.
'Til next time,
W
I suppose this calls for an explanation of sorts, an answer to the potential inquiries, but there's really nothing to say. I was unhappy at my last job, unhappy with how things were being run, with the focus on all the things that had yet to get done, rather than the things that had gotten done, and with the maniacal nature of the industry in which I found myself working in. Not to say that I was some sort of gift from God that had never erred, I assure you, I surely did. Hell, the fact that I was even still employed long enough to quit was baffling beyond measure. But, after a bit of a heated exchange with the owner, I decided that I no longer wanted to stand for being unappreciated and underpaid. I left, and while it might not have been the smart decision to make financially, it was indeed a decision I made for my own well-being. I've gone a bit loopy in the past few months, and I feel this is a necessary step in the quest to end this strangely unearned quarter-life crisis. Perhaps I beat myself up a bit (fuck it, I definitely do), but I could have done better with the opportunities that were given to me. I built up something wonderful here in Miami, and in the past 7 months I've slowly but surely let everything go. It wasn't necessarily something I did consciously, rather it was an unconscious mix of bad decisions, ill-spent emotional investments, and an entirely encompassing disregard for myself and my overall well-being and happiness. Thusly, I have found myself a bit bored, a bit broke, a bit downtrodden, but breathing.
I'd like to believe that everything will be okay, that I'll grow from this, and all that strangely repetitive hoopla that is always fed to the lesser fortunate by those who don't really care to hear about what you got going on. Simply put, I decided on this, and I'm really not sure how it's going to end. I put myself in this situation. While it sucks and is tremendously unfortunate, my rash emotions and inability to deal with what might not necessarily be right got me here. It's my burden to bear, and I'll bear it. What other choice do I have? If I've gotten this far alive, I might as well see it through to the end.
So, what is one to do? Everything is changing now, and I will admit that I feel a bit pathetic. I'm 24, not 16. At what point must one grow up and deal with the monotony and dreariness of the adult world, seeing as that's where the money is and, let's be honest, we all need a bit of cash in our pockets so as to have a bigger grin? What happened to all those dreams, to become something better, doing something that would indeed make us overwhelmingly happy? Did they vanish? Absolutely not. I'm sure they're there somewhere, but they're hard to see, buried beneath responsibility and the fear of not achieving that which people felt you were meant to achieve. There's still a bit of Pan in these bones, I can assure you of that, but at what point must one sacrifice all that they were in order to grow, adapt, and evolve into that which we seemingly must be?
It's a bit lonely, I'll tell you that. Seeing as I have no money to waste on booze and bits with the mates (and the usual birds), I consistently find myself alone with bootlegged films, Expedition Week on NGC, and Russell Brand's autobiography. I've still some grub left, which is fantastic, but that'll go away too. I'm alright, though.
I do fear the day where I'll once again have to make that monumental decision, the one that every broke man fears... food or cigarettes? Can't afford both, can you, ol' boy?!
I miss that naturally happy self I once was, where I'd wake up happy not because I had a reason to be, but just because I was. I'm sure I'm forgetting a lot of what was going on, though, and I'm sure I wasn't as happy as I remember feeling, but fuck it, I remember smiling often, and I miss that. I was happier once, and I sure as Hell want to get back there.
Boo-hoo, eh? Fucking pity parties. They're always so damn depressing.
Well, seeing as I'm not properly intrigued enough to proceed in any endearing fashion with this bit of writing, I'll end it here.
'Til next time,
W
This'll be quick!
So, as I'll further examine tomorrow, I've found myself in a bit of an unemployed pickle. Not literally. Though all pickles are surely unemployed. I can't imagine what work one of them might do... Veggie Tales? Or was that a cucumber? Are pickles even vegetables..?
Anywho!
Whilst lying on my floor, dreadfully unemployed, and watching a bootleg copy of Paul on a 42" flat screen TV for which I do not know how I will continue to pay for, I rolled over, and to my delight I found a rolled up dollar bill tucked neatly under the desk! Thusly, I decided that there are indeed perks to being a former drug abuser.
Unfortunately, though, there were no more rolled up bills hiding about. Yes, I looked.
Until the morn,
W
Anywho!
Whilst lying on my floor, dreadfully unemployed, and watching a bootleg copy of Paul on a 42" flat screen TV for which I do not know how I will continue to pay for, I rolled over, and to my delight I found a rolled up dollar bill tucked neatly under the desk! Thusly, I decided that there are indeed perks to being a former drug abuser.
Unfortunately, though, there were no more rolled up bills hiding about. Yes, I looked.
Until the morn,
W
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
"Temptation greets you like your naughty mates..."
Pardon me for such an unwelcome absence. Responsibility beckoned and it's a siren who's call I can rarely avoid.
"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me."
Hunter S. Thompson, one of the great writers of our age, or any age for that matter, probably muttered said quote amidst a drug-induced insomnia to a quivering reporter in a seedy motel off of a barren side street. How endearing.
Drugs. Some of us have done them, some of us in copious amounts, some of us not at all. What a sensitive subject to most! Why the fear, though? Chances are, some of the very people that you look up to have found themselves in a Narcotic Narnia, frolicking about in complete and utter bliss. Your parents probably dabbled, just to see what it was like. Our American President even partook, maybe in a simple matter ("Indulged in marijuana, alcohol, and sometimes cocaine..."), but in a matter nonetheless. Regardless of the drug of choice, though, the fact of the matter is that this Junkie Underworld we read about is no underworld at all, and it surely isn't cluttered with the prototypical "junkies". Despite how oblivious most are, this "underworld" is prevalent nearly every where you go. You know them, work with them, take classes with them, run into them in the street. These are simply facts, nothing else.
I'm not here to fool anyone. I've always taken pride in the fact that I bear little shame for anything that I've done. Hell, who I am, how I think, and the way I carry myself is indeed a product of nothing else but where I've been, what I've done, and the methods in which I experienced said circumstances. I firmly believe that if we all dropped the facade and spoke only shamelessly and freely, things would be clearer, and inevitably a bit better. Honesty is quite a lonely word, though. So lonely.
I've done a fair share of these dire and devilish things. Marijuana, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, ecstasy, a variety of little pills. Thoreau once said that,
In regards to debilitating my body, cocaine was always my weapon of choice. Whiskey too, as of late, but that's another matter. Cocaine is quick, clean, and readily available if you know what you're doing and where to look. As opposed to popular opinion, it doesn't render you a useless idiot, but rather a talkative, witty, personable chap, readily prepared for anything and everything. It's never cheap, but that really doesn't matter once you find yourself amidst the moment (one good reason not to immediately load your bank statement after a binge, as one needs to prepare themselves for what could potentially be tear-inducing). I loved cocaine, I will honestly say I truly did, and it doesn't bother me. Liquid courage has nothing on the courage I'd inhaled through a dollar bill( 20's are classier, FYI.). I will say this, though. That Junkie Underworld I spoke of before, it does kind of exist, at least when it comes to the exchanging of illegal and taboo materials, especially in plain sight. The ingenuity of the drug dealer, and at times even the dealt, is intriguing enough all on it's own. I've obtained it in busy, popular, quasi-classy bars, in restaurants, past jobs, yet also in seedy apartments strewn with souls lost in deeper highs (lows) than can ever be properly conveyed verbally. I've found it from strangers (never the best idea, as you might get more than you could've bargained for), on dark, drafty corners, in cars, and from the armed and dangerous. While once viewed as the drug of choice for the rich and deserving, it's become much more readily available to anyone with a few loose bills. And, believe me, it's all happening around you, right before your eyes.
Ask any addict, and they'll agree with me here, that one can never really quit these things. One can't simply say that "I'm done, I'll never do that again". Most of them intend to never touch it, and they very well might not but, as with everything in life, the future is a beguiling mistress and we're all lured forwards by the sweet sound of her siren. I'm in that boat. While I have no intention of dabbling dangerously in that debauchery, the future holds things I know not of, and I'll never pretend to know so. For the record, I feel fine, in case you were concerned. ;)
While the intriguingly interesting highs I do miss, there's much I don't. For instance, regardless how suitable and proper one might feel about themselves, it's near impossible to feel so when you find yourself waiting on a corner behind a supermarket for the scratch that'll cure that near insatiable itch. It's dark, you're paranoid, and you really just want to get your shit and go back to the solace of personal safety, of which there is none where you're standing. You're voluntarily mixing in with what can be a bit of a rough crowd, but it's the only way to get what it is you're pining for. And while you might find trustworthy suppliers, you can never really know what it is exactly that you're paying for. It can truly be a bit frightening.
Now, it all starts as a bit of fun, and it really is. You're laughing, listening to music, drinking, and messing about with your mates. You make new friends with your new found ability to swallow any doubt and approach everyone. It's a blast, and it tends to blow (pun intended) other experiences out of the water. Therein lies the problem, though. That first hit will indeed be the greatest you'll feel that night, and you'll spend the rest of the time hitting and hitting, desperately attempting to reach the highs you know deep down that you won't reach again. This vague desperation leads to quite a sad scene, the sucking of one's soul through their nose in the early morning hours after a late night. It's a smoky boneyard, usually strewn with sneezes, dirty tissues, moist bills, empty bags, drops of blood, and a looming, inevitable despair over what you've done, where you think you'll be, and the overwhelming fear of never getting there again. It's a sad sight, my friends, watching the sun rise through bloodshot eyes, and deep breaths through dry, chafed nostrils. Yet, the sun does rise, and you vow to never find yourself partaking in such reckless debauchery ever again. But everything does indeed change once the sun goes down again. It's just a matter of allure and demise, a dark, dreadfully warped yin and yang.
I'm in no way trying to condone anything. Be safe, as safe as safe can be, if you find yourself amidst these things.
"White tees and trees all day, holla for price". Coded texts or blatant phone calls, the suppliers are still there, and they very well might always be. At the end of the day, though, it's a story to tell. Getting through is the real fight.
As Thoreau said, we are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Build as you see fit, as long as you're prepared to bear the full burden of that which you've done.
Tread cautiously, my dears.
"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me."
Hunter S. Thompson, one of the great writers of our age, or any age for that matter, probably muttered said quote amidst a drug-induced insomnia to a quivering reporter in a seedy motel off of a barren side street. How endearing.
Drugs. Some of us have done them, some of us in copious amounts, some of us not at all. What a sensitive subject to most! Why the fear, though? Chances are, some of the very people that you look up to have found themselves in a Narcotic Narnia, frolicking about in complete and utter bliss. Your parents probably dabbled, just to see what it was like. Our American President even partook, maybe in a simple matter ("Indulged in marijuana, alcohol, and sometimes cocaine..."), but in a matter nonetheless. Regardless of the drug of choice, though, the fact of the matter is that this Junkie Underworld we read about is no underworld at all, and it surely isn't cluttered with the prototypical "junkies". Despite how oblivious most are, this "underworld" is prevalent nearly every where you go. You know them, work with them, take classes with them, run into them in the street. These are simply facts, nothing else.
I'm not here to fool anyone. I've always taken pride in the fact that I bear little shame for anything that I've done. Hell, who I am, how I think, and the way I carry myself is indeed a product of nothing else but where I've been, what I've done, and the methods in which I experienced said circumstances. I firmly believe that if we all dropped the facade and spoke only shamelessly and freely, things would be clearer, and inevitably a bit better. Honesty is quite a lonely word, though. So lonely.
I've done a fair share of these dire and devilish things. Marijuana, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, ecstasy, a variety of little pills. Thoreau once said that,
“Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones.”At various points in my life, the "God" I chose to worship was none other than a Keith Richards-esque squabbler, bumbling around in a thoroughly successful, drug-induced euphoria. Not some of my proudest experiences, but experiences nonetheless. Relish them regardless, I say.
In regards to debilitating my body, cocaine was always my weapon of choice. Whiskey too, as of late, but that's another matter. Cocaine is quick, clean, and readily available if you know what you're doing and where to look. As opposed to popular opinion, it doesn't render you a useless idiot, but rather a talkative, witty, personable chap, readily prepared for anything and everything. It's never cheap, but that really doesn't matter once you find yourself amidst the moment (one good reason not to immediately load your bank statement after a binge, as one needs to prepare themselves for what could potentially be tear-inducing). I loved cocaine, I will honestly say I truly did, and it doesn't bother me. Liquid courage has nothing on the courage I'd inhaled through a dollar bill( 20's are classier, FYI.). I will say this, though. That Junkie Underworld I spoke of before, it does kind of exist, at least when it comes to the exchanging of illegal and taboo materials, especially in plain sight. The ingenuity of the drug dealer, and at times even the dealt, is intriguing enough all on it's own. I've obtained it in busy, popular, quasi-classy bars, in restaurants, past jobs, yet also in seedy apartments strewn with souls lost in deeper highs (lows) than can ever be properly conveyed verbally. I've found it from strangers (never the best idea, as you might get more than you could've bargained for), on dark, drafty corners, in cars, and from the armed and dangerous. While once viewed as the drug of choice for the rich and deserving, it's become much more readily available to anyone with a few loose bills. And, believe me, it's all happening around you, right before your eyes.
Ask any addict, and they'll agree with me here, that one can never really quit these things. One can't simply say that "I'm done, I'll never do that again". Most of them intend to never touch it, and they very well might not but, as with everything in life, the future is a beguiling mistress and we're all lured forwards by the sweet sound of her siren. I'm in that boat. While I have no intention of dabbling dangerously in that debauchery, the future holds things I know not of, and I'll never pretend to know so. For the record, I feel fine, in case you were concerned. ;)
While the intriguingly interesting highs I do miss, there's much I don't. For instance, regardless how suitable and proper one might feel about themselves, it's near impossible to feel so when you find yourself waiting on a corner behind a supermarket for the scratch that'll cure that near insatiable itch. It's dark, you're paranoid, and you really just want to get your shit and go back to the solace of personal safety, of which there is none where you're standing. You're voluntarily mixing in with what can be a bit of a rough crowd, but it's the only way to get what it is you're pining for. And while you might find trustworthy suppliers, you can never really know what it is exactly that you're paying for. It can truly be a bit frightening.
Now, it all starts as a bit of fun, and it really is. You're laughing, listening to music, drinking, and messing about with your mates. You make new friends with your new found ability to swallow any doubt and approach everyone. It's a blast, and it tends to blow (pun intended) other experiences out of the water. Therein lies the problem, though. That first hit will indeed be the greatest you'll feel that night, and you'll spend the rest of the time hitting and hitting, desperately attempting to reach the highs you know deep down that you won't reach again. This vague desperation leads to quite a sad scene, the sucking of one's soul through their nose in the early morning hours after a late night. It's a smoky boneyard, usually strewn with sneezes, dirty tissues, moist bills, empty bags, drops of blood, and a looming, inevitable despair over what you've done, where you think you'll be, and the overwhelming fear of never getting there again. It's a sad sight, my friends, watching the sun rise through bloodshot eyes, and deep breaths through dry, chafed nostrils. Yet, the sun does rise, and you vow to never find yourself partaking in such reckless debauchery ever again. But everything does indeed change once the sun goes down again. It's just a matter of allure and demise, a dark, dreadfully warped yin and yang.
I'm in no way trying to condone anything. Be safe, as safe as safe can be, if you find yourself amidst these things.
"White tees and trees all day, holla for price". Coded texts or blatant phone calls, the suppliers are still there, and they very well might always be. At the end of the day, though, it's a story to tell. Getting through is the real fight.
As Thoreau said, we are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Build as you see fit, as long as you're prepared to bear the full burden of that which you've done.
Tread cautiously, my dears.
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