JUNKe Life


Random Journal Entry from July 30, 1995
June 7, 2006, 9:53 am
Filed under: JUNKe life

I was cleaning out the garage yesterday and came upon a moldy box full of old papers and journals.  Here is a randomly picked entry from over ten years ago.  

Not very regular journaling, however in glancing over these entries over the past three months, I notice that the length of the entries have certainly increased.  Virtually every entry is mobalized, motivated and energized by a shot (or two or three) in the arm of some kind of junk or stuff.  This entry is no exception.

Grabbed seven $20s this p.m. – bonus!  Four went for morphine peelers (a drug store went down a few days ago) and a couple more went for a so-called half of blow – three nausia producing hits, in fact I almost feel sick at the thought of having done that third hit.

Went into town for five hours this afternoon.  Used some manipulation around B's love addiction to get him wired into travelling in search of his object of obsession.  One phonecall prior to leaving the island and there was dope at my door a half hour after getting to town.  Did about 70mgs of morphine at 3:30pm.  It is now midnight – very good milage from those MS Contins, but they tend to give me a morph headache.

It sure would be nice to do a bit of good coke for a change.  It's been so long I can hardly recall a good buzz from coke.  Oh well, I'll never find satisfaction in drugs no matter how good the stuff occassionally might be.  As Dave at Kingswood said "It doesn't matter how much drugs I do, no amount will get me to a place of peace and happiness".  It's true, but I wouldn't turn down a couple keys of pure blow and a couple more of the highest grade junk, and give it a try (smile).  Silly drug fantasties.  The real trip with dope is a whole lot closer to purgatory than paradise. 

 needle in teeth

Some days I'm okay about no dope.  But it's scary how heavy and desperate the craving can come over me.  It's dangerous.  I find myself being driven to real whacko possibilites because I start to get so obsessive and frantic – like, fuck!, I just gotta get some shit!; like, got to get some shit! one way or another, and I will not be denied, no mater if it gets down to risk, good sense does not prevail, intense addiction does, grandious craziness.  It's fucking scary.  It's like I'm gonna do or die trying, I just don't give a shit, and that is a dangerous state of mind, and bad place to be.  And, despite any number of other places to be, I can't see but one way of escape, one way out, and that a fit full of shit.

I put my freedom at risk, start to risk my health, just a little it more as the self-esteem further tumbles and the single-minded pressure to get high come hell or high water tightens and drives me seeking with an absurd intensity.  Headlong and blind trampling wherever, searching rudely, generalized inconsiderateness, using whoever I can to get for me the hit I just gotta have.  Theft, manipulation, deception; whatever it takes, whatever will work, burn bridges, lose friends, make enemies, blow the long term for immediate sleeze.  Become a real bullshit player.

But hey, the next hit takes it all away.  Once I'm high I can look at myself with self-loathing, but I ain't bothered by in anymore, it don't hurt.  I don't feel corresponding emotional pain.  That I'm regarding myself as a piece of shit is devoid of feelings – it's just like a fact that I am shit, but so what?, shrug off the shoulders, hey, so what if I'm becoming a self-serving sleezeball?  As long as I'm high it's acceptable, there ain't no corresponding mental anguish and despair, I see myself, I sit in my shit, but I'm emotionally detached, I don't care. 

Took 20mg Valium about half hour ago.  Just two hits of blow in last two and a half hours.  Yeah, I'm ready for doing more, but not doing more, so I could just read and go to sleep, but the fucking needle freak I am, I'll probably cook up another 30mg of morphine that I really don't need right now at this late hour, but what can I say, I wanna put another poke into me.  I mean really, why not save it for tomorrow what I really don't need to use any more today?  But as much as it makes sense, I don't often do it the sensible way.  I use and I over-use just so I can keep using, running away after some increasingly non-existent rush and buzz.  On and on until I'm sick and messed up – even my junkie friends might tell me I don't need to do anymore, but I pay no heed.  I'm doing a number by myself.

syringe body 

 I might not be really feeling emotionally hurting from my self-loathing, but damn sure I'm gonna act it out – masocistic and more – self-abusing, self-battering, until I'm cross-eyed, sick, and incapably beat and burnt right out and pissed off and just about as lousy as can be and not be laying in a hospital or a cell.  Good ol' Mr. Binge persists until he's TKOed again.

Anyhow, just to prove a point, I think I'll do that 30mgs of morphine now (un-needed as it is) and then lay me down to read over and over again a page full of blurry sentences that I lose my place within in an overcooked state of semi-od (sort of self-poisoned) exhaustion, and incomprehension.  Eventually I'll drift off to sleep and have a couple of expensive narcoticized dreams – likely gray and undimentional – the cinema of my soul?

 Ah… we travel to some fucked up places – don't we?