View attachment 162494 3-6-19
I hope all y'all are havin a decent day that don't totally suck.
My DOC has changed. I've actually remarked on the subject a few times lately. This DOC has an impact on pretty much all aspects of my humble existence and, in common with all of my chemical love affairs, it began years ago during my rebellious youth. It's a sporadic on/off, hot/cold, up/down kinda thing, sometimes servin as my DOC and other times rankin lower than the hielo, jalle, alcohol, frosted strawberry poptarts, powdered rhinocerous horn, or whatever other stupid fuckin trip I happen to be on at the time. But even when I'm clean, it continues to be a relevant presence in this toad's misanthropic existence.
This DOC is my writing. I blame DF. I was in a vulnerable state and DF enabled me to take "pen in hand". Writing is one positive byproduct of hangin out here that caught me by surprise and feels like its specifically tailored to suit my needs and solely for my benefit.
I thank you DF and all y'all who are part of it for givin me the means and the motivation to find my way back to the one dominant, fundamental, most fulfillin, meaningful, and upliftin essence of what I am. I'm just sorry that, like everything else decent that's ever appeared in my private hell, it's just a lil too damn late to make any real difference.
There's a lotta parallels to be found between gettin high and gettin thots down on paper. For example; I've no tolerance for the slightest impediment to my writing, just as I hate anything that gets in the way of gettin high.
And then there's the contrasts. To question whether or not you're addicted to drugs indicates that you probably are. On the other hand, to question whether or not you're a writer strongly indicates that you ain't.
It ain't about proficiency. It goes far deeper than skill, technique, or tangible success, tho those can and should be relevant standards to a certain finite extent, much like the number of days clean in relation to one's recovery from drug addiction.
It's about heart and soul.
But for me, this heart of mine is simply a muscle which pumps chemically-fortified blood thru my not-quite-dead carcass, and I sold my young soul a half century ago to that white devil-monkey with its hateful tomato-red face and beady black eyes who clings to my back like a fuckin tumor, its bony fingers around my neck and its fetid, animal breath in my face, and, like i said, it's just a lil too damn late to make any real difference now.
I scored me and Izzy each a gram of righteous street-ready jalle to commemorate my one month sans meth manana.
Have a decent night, everybody View attachment 162493