Speed Vs Coke

I’m listening to my favourite love song, by Texas. It makes me think of a mentally ill woman locked up in a padded cell. She is sat on the floor, all on her own, tapping her feet. Her name is Air Monroe. Air was one of my main characters in my early fiction. She was one of three leads in my first doorstop novel. When I get RARE (abstained from drugs and porn), I see her quite candidly in my mind’s eye more often. She’s on a spaceship, in a cryogenics chamber, with her twin sister. I’m at the controls cabinet, torn between who to enliven. I can’t decide between them, and I can’t reason if it’s the correct idea to bring any of them out of stasis. I’m all alone too on my spaceship, I need some company, but they are so peaceful resting…

There’s this grand post in the sky, right, in my mind, and she hangs off it shouting all the time. When she isn’t shouting she is looking proud and confident. This is up by the sun. I’m 50% RARE at the moment, or just over, weighing in at 16 Days clean. I’ll always be honest here at the blogspot, my honesty crucifies my soul at times, but it is the only way to be. I must seem up and down from a reader’s perspective, never hanging around in the RARE for very long, but believe me I want to change that. And, if I fail, then God and Love will have my back.

I’m quite tempted by the loop shop atm. It sells three interracial titles for £50. To compliment that would either be thirty squids worth of amphet or a Big Dog of Dynamite off the Dino Smasher. A Big Dog of Dynamite costs £240. That’s a weekend vacation in Europe. Yeah right, if only I had a passport. But you know what I mean. Drug of choice, definitely the beak. It’s just bang bang bang, up up up, pulse pulse pulse. Whereas with the speed, it’s just one warm up drop, and then a big drop. That’s how I do it. That second drop really takes you somewhere, though, it wipes you off the grid. I call it Going Into the Blue. When you’ve had too much, when you’ve drunk too much, what do you call it? Thrashed, zonked or blotto? Pickled, sloshed, smashed? Dino Smasher says he’s on the smash again, and has been for two weeks.

GK Chesterton said that unless you are free to destroy yourself, you may as well be a dog. The only light I see by these days is the glow of the burning bridges I have left sprawled behind me. I totally understand his viewpoint. But you have to take this into effect too: Your body is a Holy Temple, it was bought at a price, it does not belong to you. So, should we look after ourselves soundly, or piss our lives up the wall? Sorry, I don’t intend to get philosophical (although it’s nice to). Anyway, that’s it for now. Ta’ra.