January 2006

  • Dimly lit room
  • low-key ambient/electronic/chill-out music [The Orb]
  • a nice wooden tobacco pipe [think 1950’s styling]
  • Salvia [x5 extract]
  • blue flame jet lighter [complete with breasts that light-up]
  • Myself
  • Smoke, poured out my ears
  • perpetuating a fear
  • I couldnt put a physical finger on it
  • a mental thought form, so real in its design
  • I feel like I am sideways, dizzy.
  • slink to the bed, turn the music up a notch
  • Image of tropical fish [tri-blue colored]
  • Turns into a photomosaic structure, thousand upon thousands

I was stretching away from the image, like my mind was being pulled away but a visual aspect of reality had its fingerprint in my present reality image-bank, it was as if I was stretching reality in an elastic sense. I was trying to figure out what exactly was chemically happening to my body, how I felt, etc.

When distration struck me…

Next thing I know I was scanning a bookshelf with a finger I thought to be my own, projection-wise. The finger was controlled by another force as I tried to mentally challenge its motion, to no avail. It zipped along thousands of books and pulled down a book. Before me was what I thought was a book of my life, I flipped thru a few pages and indeed it was my life printed out. Complete with pictures and hyperlinks in the text which brought me to certain arena’s of my life, although vague in depiction.

Than I looked at the ‘Table of Contents’ [which I cant recall]. It was complete and looked as if my life was lived and cataloged. I had trouble getting into any chapters that were in the bottom third of the ‘Titles’. There was a controversy in my head as to a naming of one chapter probably around chapters 3-7 somewhere around there. It was strange as it seemed like I was arguing with an unknown force or entity? I tried to focus on the ending chapters and the last pages of the book but it was like I was fighting something/one in trying to do so. All the writing in the book was in red, when I would highlight it, put my finger over it the color would change to a deep red.
I was left with a strange body buzz for about a 1/2 hour
[A follow-up concerning seeing red in dreams didnt produce anything significant.]

The percentage you’re paying is too high priced
While you’re living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
From the profit he’s made on your dreams
But today you just read that the man was shot dead
By a gun that didn’t make any noise
But it wasn’t the bullet that laid him to rest was
The low spark of high-heeled boys – Steve Winwood


Walking on the moon
american flag flying high
lsd dreams

careless youth
high as a kite
windy city
4th of july
mushrooms and cannabutter
huge parties
good times
girls galore
over grow – green thumb
pinwheels and fireworks
hotdogs and corn-on-the-cob
nicotine and cough syrup
caffeine and amphetamines
pharmacy job @ 13
little black book of pills
ADD bitch, haze

corner street hustlers
20 dollar sluts
rocks in my head
heroin in my veins
years wasted

pink addicted to the taste
why am I taking this crap
years wasted
need a fix
poss. of narcotics

dirty smelly
puke-covered car
to sick to stop
just one more hit
one more bag

I’d do it for you
get the fuck outta my car
gimme your money

stolen cars
pawn shops
steal rob cheat
american dreams
pawn shops on every corner
“No Dad I didnt steal your power tools”, I swear
junked out lies

back on the street
fresh brown liquid 3cc
chemical rush
red and blues 5-0
county jail
high in jail
20 bags for 3 candybars, 2 packs of smokes
i need bail
thanks parents, I swear this is the end, the last time.

20 mins later
needle in my arm
oh the feeling
no pain no gain
death? suicide?
shrinks meds
help me

Relocate to California
bitches, the surf, and green buds
speed & stuck-up people not my scene
crystal and tar

Sweet home chicago
addicted to the act
warm car, cold ghetto
hundred dollars for a day of feeling ok
fuck-off, slut
do what ever it takes for a hit
junked-out, lies

Relocate NYC
sure mom
stock up on dope
run out quick
need to score
ahhh a savior
dressed in week old rags
ratty dreads
good heroin
mom…..western union NOW!!!
again and again
I will send you a check every wends.
coke shots
speeding to the end of the galaxy
comedown hard
Hep C, junked out freaks
Cops, mexicano’s
homeless soup kitchens
needle exchanges
neat kits
the Bowery
Avenue A and Houston
enter the junk

Fly back home
dreaming of chicago dope
i need it, I want it, its mine
why oh why is this happening to me
what did I do to deserve this
pain pain
cant cry
no emotions
ONE -phone call
“Lets go, Ill buy”
split-second YES
back on the white pony

NA meeting
what freaks
feelings? remorse?
ahh shit
cant deal
the cards are all bunk

what to do
what to do
type it out
push the keys

relapse tomorrow?
today, now?
cant go back
I will die

pot and mushrooms
get back, get back
to where it all began
meds help
oh lordy what have I done

Friends die
Friends go to the joint
Friend in rehab for years on end
Friends are running slim
3 od’s in the past 2 weeks
May your wishes all come true
Fuck joo

Orange pills [buprenorphine]
used abused
pharmacuetial over load
stressed about life
back on the junk
back on the pills
back to life?

15 years down the drain
15 years in the vein
Endocarditis and abscess nightmares
Cadillac’s and lincoln’s
American dreams
Dream a little dream for me…

I was lying in a burned out basement,
With the full moon in my eyes.
I was hoping for replacement,
When the sun burst thru the sky.
There was a band playing in my head,
And I felt like getting high.
I was thinking about what a
Friend had said
I was hoping it was a lie. – Mr. Neil Young

I called pretty Peggy the other day I had no choice my sanity was in dire straights and my body would not stop twitching. She was sitting in her bare penthouse, in the middle of the grand room. The walls were decorated with the contents of washed out needle barrels. She was engrossed in a project, tearing out letters from magazines and compiling some lunatical dialect in a scary sense, it was over my head. In her inner-circle I spy a bent spoon and a couple pharmy bottles. She doesnt even look up, as she ask what do I want. I want what you have, but to have what I need?

Peggy is a story onto herself blessed into the cursed earth with a bankroll that would rival the high mountain peaks. She sleeps on one of those old nylon sleeping bags in a faded green color, reversable bright orange. Personally I think she is a schizo and most likely is as she jumps from rehabs to ghetto, ramshackle rentals to doorman guarded highrises as quick as you can shuffle a deck of cards.

Peggy is a year or two younger than me, your typical Vassar College drop-out, hippy, doper, sex-addict. From there she migrated to various Art Schools, graduating with some worthless piece of paper mainly to keep her parents off her back. I met her long ago as I bumped into her in a dimly lit bar one night when I was coked out, slamming whiskey’s and in search of a joint to chill me out. The rest is history.

We would throw huge house parties at one of the families deserted houses. Beer, gossip, girls, joints, lines at the bathroom doors. She would always try to get me to fuck her in some dark room, and many times I did. I railed the hell out of her, but its was just that sex nothing else.

We would often rent out sleazy hotel rooms in what ever city we were in only to go on unearthly binges of crack and heroin injectable nightmares which would last for days upon weeks. Other times we would stay at the Drake Hotel down on Walton Place. Our empty shells of our bodies, disheveled hair, pale complications, and sunglasses at all hours would garner looks of abomination from other patrons of the hotel. It was always a joy to have the clerk instantly say they have no available rooms.

‘Just type in my frikkin’ name into your computer’, as she slaps her Platinum card down, granules of heroin or a handful of other substances still sticking to the edges and encrusted in the numbers and letters of the card.

The response was a given… Oh I am so sorry Miss Pretty Peggy-O, I was mistaken. We do have a few suites available. I trust you want lake view. Our luggage was garbage bags stuffed with minimal clothing and a medicine hard-case for all of our drug needs. We would sleep all day, score enough heroin to kill an elephant in the evening and nod off all night. Constantly bitching about the quality, quanity, or just bitching at each other in general.

Ok back to apartment, What do you think I want Peggy I want to get high, NOW! I am in the grips of a serious w/d and need a fix now. I am to sick to cop on the streets so I took a cab here. She tosses me a fresh needle and a golfball size tied-off baggie of fluffy white heroin, I load up and register. Orgasmic relief washes over me as I ponder the blood splatters on her ceiling.

Lets do something today, I say I dont feel like being a hermit this evening, What do you want to do? Go sit at some fucking bar so I can watch you eye young girls? Uh, I was kinda thinking about that. Actually I would prefer a nice walk down Michigan Ave. as it has been years since I looked at the Christmas window displays, I need a new hat anyways whatta say? I’ll even get you a burger at Rocket 69’s. She glares back at me with a stare that I dont know what to do with, her cigarette ash hangs long.

We pop some pharmy speed to get out opiated half dead bodies into gear, she wants to score coke [go figure], I dont. We have an arguement about how I dont feel like doing coke, which will turn into injecting it into smoking it into a three day binge into a sketched out, fuck-this-shit, comedown. I lean against the wall and slowly slide down the wall. Ok, ok, you go score your coke and meet me at Flannery’s. I am going to go have a drink. Oh so you just want my drugs and than leave, fuck man. Fuck you, I can get my own drugs. I just wanted to have a nostalgic late afternoon stroll with the hopes of slight snow flurries. I want to watch those intriguing snow flakes land on your innocent face, and watch them melt into your skin.

I dont want to get geeked on coke, the speed will hold me fine. Besides if you have any thoughts about me fucking you I am telling you now my dick wont cooperate, heroin and mild uppers, yea. Bring coke into the picture and forget about it. So it boils down to do you want the dick?

‘What kinda question is that silly goose’, as she starts to crawl toward me on all fours. I get up and pour a vodka on the rocks, unzip my pants and let her get off on her oral fix. Licking the tip on my cock and staring up at me with her large, doe-like eyes telling me she wants to me to cum all over her face. I oblige willingly. I ask if she wants me to get her off and she says I just did.

I load up another shot of heroin and walk to the floor to ceiling windows and stare of into the city. Imagining what other’s are doing on this fair afternoon. I shoot-up and pass out for an hour or so.

I know that some of you dont understand or comprehend the damage of the needle. The way it rapes your free-will and ties you up into awkward positions. Which brings me to the point of getting bored of typing.

Used to be a space wrangler in the days of lysergica.
over and out…

Written by Lou Reed
Original Version – The Gift
Edited by Klone #3


Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she’d returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but she prefered her very best friend, Sheila and her perky little breasts for amusement. She would try and remain faithful but the afternoon delights with Sheila she kept quite. She struggled to stay off smack and filled her days with her Mother’s pill bottles, barbituates, yum. She was always in a daze.

Lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor, pills, heroin and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear. So his evening’s soon turned black as his doctor prescribed him Chloral Hydrate and soon he was passed out in his bed with his shoes still on.

Still visions of Marsha’s faithlessness and sobriety haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon and needle fixations permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn’t understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her tight little body. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn’t there (Awww…).

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers’ Parade was scheduled to appear. He’d just finished nicking some cola’s of homegrown from the Edelsons back lawn. Which he sold for a mere twenty dollars a lid. He had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a pamphlet from Phytoextractum inquiring into his plant and extract needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn’t have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight bong hits, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o’clock. He’d marked the package “Fragile”, and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he’d thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie or shoot some heroin. If he’d only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished the last of her Mothers Seconal. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink, smoke, and pop pills like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After he railed her in the backseat of his dad’s Lincoln Mark II he’d said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn’t love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo but that seemed many years ago.

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. “Oh gawd, it’s absolutely maudlin outside.” “Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!” Marsha loosening the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge, hoping Sheila would see her slight exposed breast. Sheila ran her finger over some amphetamine grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a smiling face. “I’m supposed to be taking these amphetamines to lose weight, but,” she wrinkled her nose, “they make me feel like running laps.” Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she’d seen on tv. “God, don’t even talk about that.” She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue Placidyl and Valium. “Want one? Supposed to be better than my pussy, she said with a wink,” and then attempted to touch her knees. “I don’t think I’ll ever touch a line of smack again.”

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. “Maybe Bill’ll call,” she said to Sheila’s glance. Sheila nibbled on a valium. “After last night, I thought maybe you’d be through with him.” “I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place, the loser couldnt even stay hard.” She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defeat. “The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn’t really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean. Winking at Sheila, hoping for a quicky. She started to scratch, Ahh the famed opiate itch, if only Shelia would scratch it.

Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. I’ll tell you, I feel the same way, and even after a while, here she bent forward pushing her small breasts into Marsha, brushing her with her hard nipples, “I want to get naked” She was laughing very loudly as she made her way to her parents liquor cabinet, that bottle of Gin was calling her name.  She needed to get loose before the family room floor fucking would begin.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house, interupting what would have been a nice, sweaty, lesbian muff fest. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a 15 cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother’s small beige pocketbook in the den, along with a fiver she pocketed for herself. “What do you think it is?” Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room, I dunno.

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. “Why don’t you look at the return address and see who it’s from?” Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. “Ah, god, it’s from Waldo!” “That schmuck, he doesnst even know how to fuck!” said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. “Well, you might as well open it,” said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. “Ah shit,” said Marsha, groaning, “he must have nailed it shut”. They tugged on the flap again. “My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!” They pulled again. “You can’t get a grip.” They both stood still, breathing heavily and for a brief moment their eyes met, Marsha imagined running her hands up Sheila’s plaid skirt, those soft thighs, that nice…

“Why don’t you get a scissor,” said Sheila. Marsha snapped out of her lesbian day dream and ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. She remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. “This is the best I could find.” She was very out of breath. “Here, you do it. I-I’m gonna die, this Seconal and Placidyl is wiping me out.” She sank into a large fluffy couch, spreading her legs just enough for Sheila to sneak a peek. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn’t enough room. “God damn this thing!” she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, “I got an idea.” “What?”said Marsha, hoping Sheila would rip her clothes off and than bury her head in between Marsha’s spread legs. “Just watch,” said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees like the good girl she was, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.


Not feeling so great. All it takes is a week and a half of hypermedical doses of amphetamine salts and I start to physically run out of steam. I need strong sleeping pills to knock me out or else I would be up for days. Wake up dose some amp’s, stare in the mirror at my abnormal sized pupils. Fret away the day in a illogical, confused mindframe. Sometime during the night I start to feel ‘the ache’ coming on, I am unsure which ‘ache’ it is. Do I need a dosage a benzodiazepines? Do I need to dose my opiate maintenence medication, buprenorhine ala Suboxone? Life is dull and filled to the brim with chemical exhaustion. Is this what I want out of life? A couple of these down the hatch, some of that powderized and insufflated, and a quad count of white tablets under the tongue. Rinse, recycle, and repeat. No thank you mam. It looks like we got a hefty dosing of white hexagonal ice crystals dumped down from the heavens’. A 4-6 inch dosing :).

Which reminds me I went and made the drive to go see Ivan Dragicevic, one of the visionaries who the Virgin Mary started to appear to him as a little boy in Medjugorje, an small town in the former country of Yugoslavia. He gets daily apparitions at the same time [6:40 pm] and is one of the few of the original 8 children who still get daily appearances. I attended the religious services and we said the rosary and paused at I believe the 5th decade for his apparition. Of course I was confused as to when this was going to happen and missed out as I was deep in prayer. I can almost get myself into a trance state by praying, I suppose its just another form of Hindu Mantras. I know some people dont believe in this sort of stuff and dont like it but I rank it right up there with UFO’s and inter-dimension access and vibration levels, etc.

Anyways I am forgetting my main point after the appearance of the Virgin Mary to him we resumed the rosary. When we finished he gave a description of what She looked like and her message: Peace, Peace, Peace. Prayer, Prayer, Prayer. She was not appearing here to dwell on the downfall of society and the negatives. She wished to send only a positive message [shortened version], I noticed a strange sense of the #3 being used, as usual. When he was talking I suddenly became super drowzy and was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. At this point I felt a strong radiation of warmth coming from my heart, the feeling grew stronger and I could feel my whole body encompassing the warmth and love.

It was pretty strange, I have never quite felt anything quite like it in all my years meditating, praying, or expanding my ‘so-called’ horizons with psychedelic chemicals. I felt a great sense of peace and just a huge sense of love [I hate to use that word because it doesnt really convey what I felt in totality]. I had a definite physical buzz but the feeling of just clean, clear love of everything pulsing thru my body. It lasted a good ten minutes and slowly wore off, I could compare it to the come-up on lsd, or a HUGH running/biking endorphine rush. One strange thing even though I had a slight cold and my nose was clogged [stupid fillers in my adderall, I curse thee, ha] I could detect a strong aroma of roses. Strange huh? Probably think I am crazy but I care not.

erase when I am done
I guess I’ll test these ‘tags’ out again. Hopefully I can figure out how they can be invisible if I even need to [I am just seeing if it increases traffic and being bored on speed :p, and play w/ background color. Also remember to create a post or a page not sure which one yet deadicated to Buprenorphine and TIP-40 aka The Bupe Bible [Buprenorphine Treatment Improvement Protocol (TIP) Series 40]. I’ll worry about that later.

test permatag

Day after day I’m more confused
And I look for the light through the pouring rain
You know that’s a game that I hate to lose
And I’m feeling the strain
Ain’t it a shame

Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll
And drift away…

Strung-Out Suzie, turned blue on frigid winterized day.
The angels screams of Narcan went unanswered,
That cold Chicago morning, her spirit did stray.
Cry your way home, or lock yourself in the sun,
and get ready for some numbed out fun.

Stuck in the middle of mental madness.
drug addick, filled with sadness,
rigging up with Gatorade,
wasted time…
Finger printed checks,
fraud with no consequence,
the money is always there,
act like I never care.
Emotionally corrupt,
this years heroin run ended abrupt.
Fuct-up in your mind on a silver afternoon,
soul’s shaded dark as the bottom of a burnt spoon.

Evening thunderclouds backlit by the setting Sun.
Shafts of light pierce thru dark ominous cloud,
Distract my attention to somewhere I can feel proud,
where the beat slows down,
and my hands dont shake.
Needle blues,
free samples, here choose…
A nurse I nicknamed ‘vending machine’ said.
Her samples crushed and into the needle went the dust,
pulling back the plunger all I saw was red.
An ampul of oxymorphone you gotta get me, you just must

Down to Wilcox, with 50 in my hand,
stoned in some useless place,
looking for a good time, plenty of time to waste,
distracted by randoms images, abstract.
My memory jogs into uncharted territories,
life on the edge has left me feeling cracked.

The game of life, must you play to lose?
Who’s it going to be this month?
black ego’s stinking of booze,
You smell the stench?
Looks like I dug myself in a deep trench,
help me get out of this place,
far, far, away from this powder and base.
Just smoke the green,
I should have known,
now I am a god damn dope fiend.
Just leave me alone.

Cresented moon shining a sliver of light,
making me feel just about right,
pocket fulla beer…
handfulla reefer…
multiple mouthfull’s of pills…
and out to get my thrills.
Syringe barrel tinted blue,
who got into the Cookie jar of Morphine Sulfate, was it you?
30mg’s, instant release.
Please don’t call the police.
smeared eyeballs

Remember the flying eyeball ’91 or ’92 Grateful Dead tour shirts?
The Heroin man, [who coincidently drove a van] the tour rats would follow,
Nation wide, brains fried,
pills they would surely swallow.
Bindles, bundles, jabs, bricks, wraps, foils, packs, fingers, chunks.
A 100% mark up for those dirty punks,
strung out among the spinning space cadets.
No regrets.
Pssst…. opiates, heroin, smacK.


Those who want it know what to look for,
finding its hardly a chore,
a drug that sells itself.
Once you open that opiate door,
elegant hell awaits yourself.
Where to begin, a subject I abhor yet still adore.

Visible rib cages (caged addict cries, while the caged bird flies).
Today is what happened when I was dreaming awake,
vivid rememberences of a far of land, some womens thighs, and perfect highs.
Look to the past or is that backward,
no future?

Bodies bleed, nobodies see’s.
Shaded views,
insane main-vein jabs that bring you to your knees.
A lifestyle that is pre-programed to lose.
Tanned skin and HI-heels,
closet pill heads and cock-tails,
Welcome to the land were nobody ‘feels’ and you always get killer deals,
martini glasses, straight in the bathroom stall, sniffing rails.
Do I enjoy this, no not at all.

Tubes and buttons,
personalities have been erased
the hospital door’s I faced
The old man with glazed eyeballs is in good spirits,
He told me how to live my life, did I listen?

Where are we going…
space lights shining like a bright parade,
stay in the stream of light while it is still flowing, its all-knowing,
brilliant minds of many shades,
looking for a cause, are you afraid?
Warning bells are ringing but I’m not listening.
Instead I stare in awe of the night sky, stars glistening
Just me and the stars, crisp is the air,
my body and mind need much repair,
my drug use has taken a massive toll,
May God have mercy on my soul.

What ever became of strung-out Suzie…?
She’s dead.

Please, please give me a ride….
need to go out one more time
crush this self-esteem
need to go out one more time
just to see what the day will bring
need to go out one more time
ease this pain like I do
need to go out one more time
after this I will be through
need to go out one more time
disappear without a trace
need to go out one more time
and hope no one takes my place
need to go out one more time
only so much I can bare
need to go out one more time
make sure I got my share
need to go out one more time
cause I havent had enough
need to go out one more time
cause the times they’ve gotten so rough


The universe was a place of wonders, and only habituation, the anaesthesia of everyday, dulled our sight…   Salman Rushdie [The Satanic Verses]

I am so unhappy in my life its sickening and I am not even abusing heroin.  I am loaded up on my prescriptions though but I dont get high off them I take them so I dont get sick.  Is that what medicine is for to hold sickness away?  To hold sickness away from the very medications I am taking to make me not sick?  Or are medications supposed to cure my ailments? A little of everything I suppose.

Regardless I am sooo sick of taking a pill for this a pill for that another to come down off that pill and another to help combat the side effects from another pill and yet another pill just cause my doctor says it will help.  Well I am calling bullshit, I have never been so unhappy in my life as I am now.  I suppose that might be a bit of a fib I have been alot more miserable when I was strung out, sick, and fiending for a fix but at least than I felt some pleasure albeit fleeting as the plunger was pressed.

I see the doc. tomorrow for refills on a bunch of meds.  I really think I need to add an anti-depressant to the mix [Lexapro I am thinking as I have heard some good reports from a few different people] but first I have to cut out some of my other meds.  Lets see…

  • Suboxone [buprenorphine] – 16mg, I take 2-4mg usually, but my use has been elevated lately to around 4-8mgs.
  • Ativan [lorazepam] – 2mg once a day
  • Klonopin [clonazepam] – 2mg 3 times a day [I take it in one lump sum]
  • Vistaril [hyrdoxyzine] – 50mg 3 times daily
  • Neurontin [gabapentin] – 300mg 3 times daily
  • Adderall IR [amphetimine salts] – 30mg 2 times daily
  • Trazadone Hydrochloride – 100mg tabs take as needed for sleep
  • Seroquel [quetiapine] – 100mg tabs take as needed for sleep
  • Risperdal [risperidone] 1mg tabs take 1-2 as needed for sleep and anxiety
  • Clonadine Hydrochloride – .1mg tabs as needed [used for when reducing other medication dosages]
  • Zoloft [sertraline] – 50mg tabs [I dont take this]

I am probably forgeting one or two but at this point does it really matter?  I am trying to work-up a detox plan and rid myself of most of this nonsense.  I am over medicated I know this I feel this if I let 24 hrs. go with out some pill going down my throat.  I would like to get down to the basic’s Suboxone and Klonapin.  I feel a strong connection towards the Adderall and am going to have a hard time giving that up as I do see it has positive effects on my social anxiety in small doses.  Who am I kidding though I breeze thru my script like a 8yr old eating a bag of M&M’s.  I can always save um for a rainy day or somebodies rainy day. 

Once I get down to just those two main pills is when the real detox would/will begin.  I can taper my Buprenorphine down to a low level relatively quickly but I really dont think its safe for me to jump off this med completely untill spring/summer’ish just because the temptation to use heroin is to big right now and my self-will to small.  I have nothing in my life to fill the void, some say fill it with NA/AA, I’ve tried it doesnt work.  I suppose I could try again but I think this is best left in my own hands.

Now the benzo’s are the real kicker I can stomach a quick drop in dosing but once I reach 1-.5mg of the Klonapin is where the battle really begins.  This will take some time but all I have is time so no worries.

Ugh, I am getting a knot in my stomach just thinking about all this.  I am unhappy when I am abusing illicit narcotics, I am unhappy when I am on prescription meds, and I havent been sober for more than 3 months for 15 years.  I’ve done it before but when I dropped of Buprenorphine I happen to meet a girl practically the next day and I was able to throw all my energy into her rather than dwelling on my situation.  Granted my drinking picked up considerably but thats life.  Currently I am not drinking much 2-3 times a month and maybe once I will actually get drunk, I have cut way back on my drinking.  I have very few sober social outlets and I am preaching to the choir when I say how hard it is to get back on a sober kick.   Tobacco, I wont even get to that, ha.

My illicit drug use has gone down considerably over the winter in someways and increased in other ways.  Gone are the tri-weekly IV coke binges sitting in my room with binoculars convinced the paperboy was really a cop.  We get like 4-5 different papers delivered in my area so they were always fucking with my head, including the guy who I was convinced was outside my window or the SWAT team ready to repell from the roof on ropes and come crashing thru my windows catching me in mid shot.  Winter [SAD?] has also increased my imaginary usage of heroin, thats under control as I have Buprenorphine as a back-up in case things get hairy.

I am a sick person, I just dont know what to do anymore.  I know I have to get off these medications and I know I have to get a life.  I have way to much free time and bordumb.  I need a job I have been telling myself I am going to get once forever but yet I do nothing.  Some days I feel like crumbling into myself and disappearing, other days I feel like killing myself, other days I am optimistic, other days I am so doped-up I cant move.  I hate myself and what I have become.  I am at wits end something has to change or I fear a very negative outcome.  I am unhappy abusing drugs, I am unhappy on pharmacuticals, will I be happy sober?  I need to find an interest in life and I need to find it quick.

So know what?  Write out a goal list concerning my medications, god am I pathetic and the sad thing is I really dont care if I am pathetic or what people think about me.  Fuck um, fuck um all.  I need to do this for myself for a varity of reasons the biggies being to show myself I can do it and I am in control of my life another is to hit the reset button on life and start off again sober.  I am just afraid of the first 3-6 months I am clean.  I cant afford to fail because if I do I have a very strong feeling that I wont last this next run.  I willl show myself I can do this even if it means that I will be uncomfortable.  Ok I am going to end this self-pity rant as I am getting a headache thinking about it.  Please dont bother to comment saying you can do it, I dont want to hear that shit.  This is just a virtual documentation of my mind at this juncture.

The normal broadcasting of my opiated tales will return tomorrow, fear not.

Ethan is taking a mid day break, sitting on the corner stoop at the corner of Jones Street and Bleecker Street drowsing in and out of consciousness.  His head is slung between his knees and it seems he is enjoying his life as a junked-out-wastoid-dope peddelar.  A large french chef pokes his face out of the kitchen and noticies Ethan next to the garbage cans.  The chef drops his garbage bags and frowns at Ethan and procedes to yells out, "What the fuck kid" and Ethan swirls around and tries despreatly to open his droopy eyelids. The chef grabs him by his collar and with an authoritative grip picks up Ethan’s limp body that seems to move more like gelatin rather than the normal human anatomy.  He screams some unintelligible language and proceeds to toss Ethan flat out on the passing sidewalk.  Ethan mumbles to himself and tries to stand without the help of his whobbley knees, lights a match and lights himself up a bent handrolled TOP cigarette.  Taking deep inhales in a hotbox motion, he brushes off his Bannana Republic Kachki’s, flips up the colllar on his straw-like shirt and ties his hair back into a ponytail, knotting it three times.

Hailing a cab with his middle finger brings a quick response and soon he is sitting down on the vinal back seat.  Ever so cautious he whips out his dope and prepares a quick shot carefull to obscure the view of the cabbie.  The eyes of the driver dart into the rearview mirror once the lighter graces the bottom of the spoon.  Ethan mummbles, "Testing my lighter".  I slide the fresh needle into my pumping veins on my hand reminecent of a hot knife thru butter.  There is a 3 second pause before the chemicals begin to do there magic.  Out comes another cig and out the window goes the needle.  It slides out the window, hits the trunk of the taxi, takes a big jump and spins circles in the air.  Ethan is watching from the back window as the needle double bounces off the sidewalk and lands right under some suits high polished wingtips…CRUNCH.  The streets are just packed as Ethan immerges from the comfort of the cab.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the fruit stand, nectarines laying in a bed of shaved ice.  Masterbation enters his head as a tall leggy blonde passes before him, her ass cheeks tight.  Ethan decided to come down here Avenue A and 2nd thru 4th street mainly to sell the rest of his skag and partially to see if he can run into: Brenda, Brandon, Jules, or any of the others.

Ethan spies his next victim, she is walking in the heat wearing a long sleeve shirt and she looks to be cold. He turns around and walks a few sidewalk squares back and turns around again and starts to walk toward the intersection timing his approach. As she walks by Ethan coughs under his breath, "Dope, dope, dope". The girl whirls around and looks at him with pleading eyes all he has to do is nod.

What are you looking for? -ethan
5 packets.. -girl
ok, walk next to me, down this way – ethan

Ethan slides his hand into his pocket and grabs a rubberbanded bundle and slides 5 packets out, sight un-seen.  The girl hands him 50 bux and the exchange is made while walking.  The girl continues and Ethan cuts back and heads back toward the fruit stand.

The customers come and go, as does the cash.  With the evening drawing near Ethan decides to walk down thru Washington Square Park and score a joint for the walk home.  A crudely rolled joint is had for 3 dollars.  Light, inhale, exhale.  That first hit is all he is looking for his body automatically takes on that lovely feeling of intoxication.

Staring up into the treetops watching the birds chirp and play he is interrupted by a voice yelling… Ethan, Ethan… he glances toward the bathrooms and sees Julie running toward him.  Julie is a resident junk-head, she lives with her boyfriend Jason in their Van which is usually parked on Ave. B and 4th.  They are your typical street kids probably around 25 years of age.  J and J usually panhandle or scam to support the dope habit, once or twice a month they take a ride to Conneticut to the OceanSpray manufacturing plant and help make cranberry juice or something of the likes.

Julie reachs Ethan panting and sweating. She cuts right to the chase, "Are you holding?".  Ethan replies yea, but I only have half a bundle left. "Will you do it for 30?"  Eck, your stretching me thin on that but if you can score me some coca powder, sure thing.  The deal is done.

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