Cocaine Anonymous

Remember that bracelet I mentioned the other day? The one a porn star has been wearing, and the one a girl sat next to me in church had on? I’ve been hardly able to get it out of my mind. The porn star has been calling like a wolf from the other side of a valley. I know a successful podcaster from my hometown of Widnes called Shaun Attwood who used wolves as an analogy for his drug-taking days. He said the temptation of drugs was like the calling of wolves. The wolves used to howl at him all of the time. You could throw the concept of a wolf at 101 different university graduates and they would all have a different idea of it in their head. I sure would like to see Shaun’s wolves one day. Preferably rendered by a talented comic book artist. Wouldn’t that be neat?

I slipped up last night and rang my dealer. Before that I called the Samaritans and told them about Precious, the woman trapped in a dungeon underneath my floorboards. I didn’t say she was underneath me, I changed the story slightly and said she was my dying mother on her deathbed. The promise was the important part of it. I didn’t lie about that. Precious has made me promise her that I won’t go back to it. I let her down in a way by ringing my dealer, as the industrious intent was there, but luckily enough he’s been arrested so couldn’t answer the phone. I’m lining up another dealer today, the temptation is just too strong at times, but I’m determined to keep it to the interracial and not fap to the darker stuff that goes on in my life. I’m not ready to talk to anyone about Precious yet, not even a Samaritan. Only you, my eternal White Voider. I know you’ll listen and not judge, as it’s just a guy with a blog on the other side of the planet, or wherever you are. Someone you don’t know or never will. Or maybe we’ve met before, and you’re someone local. That’s fine with me also. A White Voider is a White Voider. And a Blogger is a Blogger. Makes no difference to any of us, does it? I could be frozen and you could be dead. I could be in Guantanamo and you could be a Prince. And we could meet again in the next life, when we are both cats.

I went to a meeting last night, CA (Cocaine Anonymous), and shared about my feelings regarding this bracelet. I didn’t feel embarrassed about it all. I passed the share across with a spooky vibe, interpreting it as a supernatural sign. I would have forgotten that porn star if her bracelet hadn’t of popped up in church. Now she is all over me like cheap aftershave, like a 5XL suit from Jacamo. I’m thinking about outlaying £240 on a bag of beak today, but that will leave me with only a hundred left for the week, struggling a bit like. If I don’t buy it I’ll be comfortable, I’ll have no psychosis, and I’ll be able to keep my appointments. Not to mention my promise to Precious. I also shared about my ghosts, or spirits if you prefer. I mentioned that my higher power is on its way out, as I have lost my leader, Abbie the Kleine Madchen, and more evil fapping will only serve to drive more and more of them away. There are around roughly 25 beings in my energy consciousness. The other night was barmy, as I was trying to sleep. Half a dozen of them were reaping havoc in my bedroom. It’s hard to describe how they behave, words cannot suffice. The only word I can think of is ‘frenetic’. They’re just all over the place, finger-pointing and shouting and clamoring for my attention. It’s so discomfiting and off-putting, my mind simply cannot rest when they are all out and about. I feel so self-conscious and spied upon; so observed and scrutinized. It riles me: It agitates me: It confuses me: It does my head in. I rang my Accountability Partner this morning too. I’ve not spoken to him since I started relapsing seven weeks ago. His words of advice are great. He said that life is better without drugs, and that I have to sacrifice the rushing uproar of narcotics for a better pathway. I wish I had his mentality. He says you couldn’t pay him to a do a line of cocaine. I’m quite the opposite. My lines on average, I’ve worked out, cost 30 quid each. 30 quid for a stupid line of crap! Its madness isn’t it? I only get 8 lines out of a bag. They are 8-ball bags (an eighth), but they are nowhere near enough. And all I can afford. I’d get two or three if I had the funds, but unfortunately I haven’t got the funds. Maybe that’s a blessing. I’d have a couple of hundred pregabs as well, which I haven’t had for several months. They create euphoria in the brain, like a clean ecstasy pill, but you feel flat and deflated when you go without it. See ya next time.