I can’t mention drugs and porn currently. God, do I ever stop banging on about them? This relapse was a bad one, I’ve only just crawled out of bed and rolled into the shop for a super strength beer. I supped it on the bench outside, watching happy-looking pedestrians meander past.
Well, at least I’m out in public. No amount of give-away ulcers on my bottom lip can keep me hiding indoors forever. I’ve noticed that addicts always get face sores when they use. It must be a thing. Something takes away their confidence and resolve and leaves them a scab in exchange. Quid pro quo. Fair kop.
It was crap, by the way. I didn’t enjoy it. There goes my clean time. But I don’t want to focus on the negative. At the same time I can’t distract myself by writing a story. Suppose I’ll just chat bubbles as usual.
Back in college, way back when, our philosophy tutor asked us to describe what thinking feels like. Easy that. I said it was like blowing bubbles through bubbles. Lisa had jewelry last week that doubled up as bubble blowing devices. She removed her chunky ring and started blowing bubbles through it.
How would I describe the thinking process almost thirty years later? Difficult, at the moment. My visual cortex has been hacked to ribbons, so there goes the pretty pictures of silver lakes and castles in the sky and dolphins and fairies and leprechauns sat on the edges of giant magic mushrooms. I wouldn’t be able to envisage my own face if I’d been staring into the mirror all day. But hey, I can live without that.
Having an overactive third eye, unless you are hooked up,
is overrated. Now the menticiders have nothing to harass me about. I have
theoretically lost my mind! Who knows, maybe it will return to me one day…
Until then I'll try and plod on, getting my arse onto this chair as much as I am able. Should be back later.
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