Once you accept the 'Life as a cosmic joke' theory, things become a lot easier to understand. (And therein lies a problem - have you just accepted this theory to make your life easier? A sort of modern Christianity, without all the nailings and only a couple of mystical rituals, easily remembered).
Anyway, it helped me make sense of comments like : "You're so arrogant, Flex."
Arrogant. Could they not see the joke? How can someone who turns to a bucket of slops if he doesn't raise the finances for his next shot, which is always less than four hours away. Using so much I really knocked that eight hour half-life on the head. My body had become supremely efficient at processing diacetyl morphine molecules. In fact, I was pretty much a one-job factory. I took diacetyl morphine, broke it down to morphine, codeine, a few thousand other non-worthy opiates, then excreted them after further processing.
I took in sugar based substances to fuel the factory. I survived on a litre of iced coffee, three slices of mudcake and four Mars Bars a day for around three years. And gained no weight. It's easy to think in retrospect that I was hovering outside of real life. That beyond a certain amount of gear use, you put yourself in a slightly different realm, where calories and careers are pure concept-stuff, not harsh reality.
I had two friends who had managed to get themselves off solids altogether - a feat I never achieved. They would each drink around four litres a day of the cheapest possible fizzy soft drinks. Their flat was littered with a combination of empty bottles and the tiny tiny knots of quarterweight and halfweight bags.
They had me beat hands down in terms of processing efficiency. Imagine, a purely liquid based diet, not for a day, or even a week, but years. I like to tell myself, my little conceit, that I was handling a larger volume of gear, and that was what necessitated the odd solid intake, so I satisfied myself that what I lost in quality I regained in quantity.
(You have to have your little conceits, even in the midst of living for nothing but the next shot. More of that same joke I guess.)
It got so that when people called me arrogant I did not try to correct them. There are none so blind as those that cannot see, and at times it seemed I was the one-eyed king.
I can't sustain myself purely on liquids anymore. But maybe that's because my use is so low. Several days since the last shot. In geographical terms, those few days are so like a desert stretching between me and gear, there's really no mentionable difference. And the thought of going through a full day of work tomorrow before S gets paid and I can score again, if that is what I am choosing to do, is almost unbearable.
Give me a fast forward button.
Listening to:
Sunset Rubdown - Shut Up I Am Dreaming. Black box Recorder -Child Psychology.
Doing:
Day Three, again. Liquid on the insides, but metro dregs keep my head monsters at bay.
Watching:
Crap sci-fi. Watched most of East of Eden last night. J Dean, perhaps the original slouching mumbler? Dollhouse S2 - Joss Whedon masterworks, it is getting quite good.
Reading:
Alice Munro short stories. Our Chekhov they say, but, well, she is good.
Work:
Hard to maintain my temper sans opiates. Fools to the left of me at work it feels and I struggle to quell my tame my tongue..
Cooking:
Pearl barley risottos at midnight last night. Pizza the night b4. At least I can cook...?.
Scoring:
Not since Saturday's big $25 shot. Long time no gabo it feels.