As usual, my Friday evening spiraled pathetically out of control. Actually, that’s not really accurate. A story that begins with a rapid fire, Aronofsky-esque montage of drug abuse, shifts quickly to a scene of blistering sex then climaxes with a jaw-dropping police chase would be a story to take pride in.

But Friday – Friday was just pathetic.

Self annihilation should be conclusive and quick. The ever deepening pit of substance abuse is just sad. I think the reason most junkie assholes like myself refuse to get their shit together is because they’re too ashamed of the dumb DUMB shit they’ve done.  Sobriety is the worst hangover. As fragmented memories come trickling in, inevitably I’ll face-palm hard enough to illicit a nose bleed. Maybe sharing this shit will give me the motivation to clean up and stop being such a douche.

Our dealer is an obese black dude called Barney. It’s fucked up I’m saying that because it’s his real name. We call him ‘Black Barney.’ We do this because Barney is a black man. Not very clever, but the nickname pisses him off, which delights us.

Every drug dealer has their speciality. Barney’s is rock cocaine. He calls it ‘Buttah.’ Barney suffers from a debilitating speech impediment. All of his words jumble together into an indecipherable mush of vowels. It’s pretty funny.

ImageTo celebrate the weekend and pay day, Blake and I went to score a jumbo, but wouldn’t you know it, peoples’ tax refunds are starting to trickle in so there’s a deficit of narcotics at Barney’s residence. All he had was a scattering of pills, which he gave us at a discount.

“Takewhutcha’llwun’njusgimmetwenny,” Barney breathed heavily, his big belly heaving. “Mandissniggahungry…m’getabucket.”

We grabbed a handful of miscellaneous pills and got home before Barney could rethink his offer. Once home, Blake and I poured our bounty on the coffee table. A scattering of small milligram hydrocodone, half an aderol and xanex were mixed in with mints, cough drops and baby aspirin.

Threatening to burn Barney’s house down, Blake left, slamming the door. I heard the car speed away with a crunch as Blake demolished our mailbox. Rage boiled in my gut as I tossed a handful of what I considered to be worthless and weak narcotics down my gullet.

ImageI wasn’t expecting to even get off. What I didn’t realize at the time was that a hit of lsd and a roll (ecstasy) was sprinkled in to the pill cosmopolitan. It was currently dissolving in my guts, turning my brain into molten fire.

Well, needless to say, the battery of drugs floating around my bloodstream made me leave Earth’s orbit and travel into the ether of hallucinatory fantasy. I’ve never mentioned this but I fucking HATE ecstasy. As a fiendish sex addict, a de-inhibitor is the last fucking thing I should injest.

Long story short; I spent the evening jacking off in a frenzy, pulling my tomato-red dangler like taffy until I was swollen and throbbing. In between self-abusing like a drunk bonobo chimp, I cowered in the corner of my room, terrified by the hellhound in our front yard.

The next morning I realized this beast from the netherworld was a decoy our neighbor puts out to scare away free range chickens that escaped from the Croatian man down the block. Don’t ask me to elaborate. Blake had ‘borrowed’ it and placed the thing front of our house so he could laugh at my folly. Fucking asshole.


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