Heroin Abuse Update

WHAT ON EARTH WAS I DOING EARLIER? Answer: heroin. I took it because I was miserable and it worked. Sheer unconsciousness. 2nd stab and I was in. Pushed the dark brown popy juice straight into my lower right thigh, held the leg up to the ceiling, which I have to do with my legs; the circulation is so poor; within 30 seconds I felt that unfamiliar poppy-crap feeling doing stuff I don't need to body and brain. Within 2 minutes I was in my bathroom slumped over the sink wondering what I was doing. I needed to go out to get my cherry cyder to potentiate the heroin so I did (not that the heroin needed making any stronger...)

Each £10 bag (2 for £15) contained a tiny lump which didn't even smell B I thought "what is this? The usual ripoff!) then I cooked up and smelled something but it still looked to me like a dark dye was in the mix. I didn't bother taking it in 2 and wasn't bothered about overdosing so I took it all together and it knocked the living crap out of me. I couldn't even tell you it was fun as the days when strong heroin felt like fun are long gone. It wasn't as heavy as 7 valium blues I had last night it has to be said, but the unconsciousness was probably deeper.

Which is why I left in the blog-nonsense I typed when I repeatedly gauwched (rhymes with crouched: means "to go into heroin-induced stupor") at the computer. I thought I'd show you what heroin actually does.

The other thing it does is barely anything and that's when you get tolerance to it as anybody who takes enough for long enough will. Even when I was on £100 a day (only for a few weeks) I never got that out of it. Perhaps because I was speedballing my heroin with crack (another £40 a day) my tolerance shot so high. Speedballing means you drop crack into the cooked up heroin or simply cook together and get an intensely powerful IV hit. When I had money my snowballs were "15 and 5" meaning £15 of B (0.4g at the time) and £5 of crack (0.1g at the time). This was a few years ago when drugs were stronger and deals more generous than nowadays. The heroin-coke mixture is intensely addictive and very difficult to stop doing. Even when I reduced the cocaine contingent to £2 against £10B I still couldn't give up that "sparkle of coke" as I called it ...

I haven't the slightest intention of using again tomorrow. I got better value when I was spending £15 a day on DVDs. Least I have a slew of movies to show for that! Tonight, when my wooly consciousness cleared out a bit, I put on The Aviator with Leo DiCaprio and Cate Blanchett; he reminds me of me: repeating over and over the same words. That's something I do when I go cuckooclocks! Did you know that OCD and bipolar mood originate in the same area of the brain? Makes sense that when I had my mini nervous breakdown as a kid. I launched from my "I'm dying of cancer!" depression direct into "I'm contaminated!" OCD. I was uncomfortable turning on taps. Doors I opened with elbows or feet or waited for somebody else to do the opening; noses were revoltingly contaminated. Snot comes from noses and snot was vile.

So you see this started in childhood and nobody knew what was in my head. Even when they asked, I could barely answer: I wasn't brought up to express my feelings (as, let's face it, children weren't. Not until the present day and age when kids seem to have all manner of conduct disorders and oppositional-defiant issues to contend with.... My extreme "compliance" as Dr Smartarse (the one I would gone crazy if he dared treat me for my present problems) left me as an adult with Vast reserves of self-control. Without such self-control I might easily have done something truly stupid during my "I'll clean my house with kerosene and matches" urges in more extreme phases of mania. So you see I have nothing about which to be bitter against my parents. Neither one made any mistake I myself wouldn't make with a child of my own.

I have my parents to thank for teaching me right from wrong, which not all parents seem to do. So when I turned junkie I was a dirty desperate junkie, but not a vicious one.

And I'm still a junkie today. A methadone junkie perhaps, who picked up heroin yesterday. But I know what I want and I don't want heroin. As my own saying goes: Even when it's good, it's shit. And that's heroin for you in a nutshell. In Marianne Faithfull's words: "A big waste of time"... Illustrated: opium sap; yucky brown Afghan heroin (proper gear is talc white); an obviously faked-up photo as no junkie ever draws up a hit of B without carefully filtering!

SUGABABES: SHAPE
originally by sting; way better by these girls
ignore the ad at the beginning

Heroin in the House

I NEARLY FORGOT WHAT I'D DONE because I found myself standing stuporose at the sink not understandi-wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww {and I fell asleep pressing the w-key!}

I scored heroin earlier because I got a call on Sunday promising the Best "dark" in the //////////////////ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

now do you see the problem with heroin? It makes me tired. I cannl''dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd


IF YOU THINK I'm the kind of pussyman who's not gonna tell you I've had a teenly little lapse, banging up 2 £10 bags at once you still don't get who I am. Not that I get it an3eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I'm leaving this post as it is. I shot up about 0.3g ie a £15 deal intl my right calf; was direct in the vein; pushed in and got Instant Fkxatklllllll[[[[[[[[[[[

see what I mean? so out of it can barely type English. So it's staying like this. Just to show how cool heroin is.

Really cool. I'm so glad I took it I can't even remember taking it as such. I just have felt incredibly sleepy since banging up And I need my sleep; so thats one thing: I'm sleeping like a baby in this dark blue armchair.

There's no filter. Nothing saved. I did this in oneaaddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas


it's now 2:44am; I began writing this around 9

and those me sleeping at the keyboard nonsense-letters had to be edited by 90%: sent the machine screwy


03:05 hrs I'll update properly later. This guy does 2x£10s at £15 and they're STRONG. My body's not used to heroin any more; hence the nonsense keyboard-gauwching

05:20 hrs; let's have some music (I'm awake now)

ALL SAINTS: PURE SHORES
soundtrack from movie The Beach

Confession

I'M NOW ONLY ONE DAY CLEAN. Last night I wanted to score. I turned the idea over and over in my mind. I wiped my old text messages then a new one appeared, timed fifteen minutes earlier. This was from Dealer #1, the one who used to sell giant £20 bags. So I thought: You want it that much. You get it. So I did.

In a way there's nothing to post because the gear was so crap* that drugs-wise I might as well have chucked £15 down the drain and saved a perfectly good needle. It cooked up far too dark. It smelled of heroin being smoked, rather than cooked (a different smell). I thought that's odd. When I tasted a droplet: nothing. So I banged up the entire lot at once and felt the faintest opiate tinge for all of 45 seconds.

All I've done is ruin my number of Days Clear, not get high, throw £15 away.

On the plus side I got the craving to use out of my system. The same way I gave up crack two years ago, yet wondered back six or seven times afterwards, I never wanted it again the next day. I just remembered why I hated it that much. I no more want to use again than a person who went to Disney Land on Monday would wish they were on a rollercoaster again Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

Heroin is a spectre from a past life. More a ghoul than a spectre. A monster who tries to deceive: You give me everything, then I'll give you More! Somehow, in the end, it didn't work.

So don't worry about me, I won't be hurrying back any time soon. I have Caramel Baileys, mince pies and temazepam, so I'm well sorted for Xmas.

Hope y'all have a Merry One one too. If it can't be Merry then may it be Tolerable. If you're 100% substance-free then may it be Serene (and of course Clean).


Plus I hope 2011 is better for you than this Bag-o-Shite year ever was!!

The doggie is an American Akita, the sort of dog I really want.

I'll be online on Gabbly tomorrow so if anyone wants to talk I'll be there.

*To anyone who hasn't followed, there has been a severe drought in the British heroin supply for over 2 months; that's why my formerly reliable dealer was selling crap. It's hard to find a constant, reliable source of heroin anywhere now.

2:45am Relapse

I KNOW THIS MIGHT HURT SOME OF YOU, my old friends. But I HAVE TO BE FRANK, BECAUSE RELAPSING IS WHAT I'M DOING. Going backwards.

My normal dealer would not serve me tonight, said he had something to do, not back till MONDAY AFTERNOON... Junkie Horror!

So I rang a distant 2nd choice who normally comes good in a drought. First called around 00:40 hrs. Couldn't understand what on earth he was trying to say. Went in a phonebox to call back on my mobile. Still no sense. I assumed I was messing me about (no mutual respect. He thinks I'm soft or stupid or// whatever he thinks. I think he thinks junkies are idiots who will pay anything, wait any time for rubbish. I've known him since he was 16. His original "boss man" is doing life for a shooting. What lovely people.

First he says come to one tube station. Then he says go to flats far nearer another. Giving benefit of the doubt I thought, well maybe he's cabbing for what Anna Grace calls a "booty call" (I would call it casual sex of a friend fck). I stood about under some freezing, shadowy trees well after 1:30am, for a good half hour, on the verge of hypothermia.

2 calls later and my phone credit is down to 22p. Not at all good.

Then I check my calls and realize my MAIN MAN II rang me at 1:45am. I sent an urgent text.

Told Mr Disrespect I'm not waiting any more. Main man said he has the same B as Mr Disrespect, he did me 2 for £15 + one white, which was pink. Pink crack is nearly always good. It was only little because he wanted £25 and I specified, "big darks please and a little white, you'll do THAT for £20, won't you?" (Big crack tiny B I cannot stand. I'm a B-punter, as they call it.) I got da stuff around 2:30.

So I've lapsed back onto crack. Even my lighter wouldn't play ball until I got wrapping paper from a 1 ml syringe, set fire to that and my pink crack piped beautifully.

I love drugs. I know a lot of you, who are my true friends, with cats and gardens and lives and hopes for me will be really upset. I'm despairing now that I will ever attain your kind of normality. As I told my Mum, you KNOW why I went on heroin. "Yes it's because the antidepressants didn't work," she likes to think. Truth being I have been unhappy and I mean desperately unhappy sincd age 8. At 10 I had what a counsellor called "the childhood form of a breakdown" (thought I was dying, washed hands obsessively. In winter they chapped and bled.)

Lots of people have had far worse lives than me. Some never took heroin or crack or drink. Others did and still came off. There is hope. As I've said before I do have willpower. I might seem a bit soft sometimes and people mistake kindness for weakness. I try to be kind, despite everything. TRY. I don't always succeed. I have been called "hard" a few times (always by women), always with a note of disappointment. Who is nasty? Who is nice anyhow? We're all a mixture, by degrees.

I have tried to put in a good word for people who could do with some support. I am not a saint. I'm just an addict trying to be the best person I can be despite it all.

I often feel badly misunderstood.

My biggest revelation in counselling, about 12 years ago was SO WHAT?! So what if the world doesn't understand. People will always think what they please. Live your own life.

I still wish that life could be drug free, even though I have a fully loaded pipe right by me. Night night everyone.

Please, my deepest fear is that some impressionable kid will read this and think drugs are cool. They have inflicted more misery than you could ever imagine. If you're miserable without heroin/crack/crystal/drink/whatever your life will only get ten, twenty, a hundred times more intolerable, more chaotic. And if and when you do finally kick those chemicals (and it's not like giving up smoking, it takes a lot of motivation + professional help) whatever made you so unahppy to start with will still need addressing.

I'm writing for everyone, everywhere. Perhaps I over-explain some slang or aspects of the life but this is so that any English-speaker, however far-flung their location, and addicted or not, will read this and hopefully learn something. I only "preach" in terror that some vulnerable person might think I'm condoning this life. I condone nothing. I try only to describe.

PLEASE STAY SAFE, FRIENDS.

ILLUSTRATED: my life.

Stung by the Killer B

YET AGAIN: what's new?

In recent times I have shied away from detailing my drugs use in blow-by-blow type accounts. Or for that matter my endless resolutions to quit ~ and then the inevitable "lapses". They seem to exasperate y'all too much.

In the past I only managed to stop for a few days at a time and I only achieved that by either spending all my money, or keeping it in a post office that closes at 5:30 pm ~ and I don't have a cashcard.

But that method of "quitting" if you want to call it that ~ can only ever score me a few days off.

Because as surely as night follows day Monday morning comes round again. And then the itch to use becomes all-consuming. And heroin always feels better after a few days off, even if I have held myself on a heavy dose of methadone in-between. Despite what the doctors seem to say ~ and I can only speak for myself ~ methadone simply does not sate the old receptor sites anything like as effectively as heroin. Even at doses over 100mg a day. I think if the drugs services and medical profession sincerely wanted to crack heroin addiction (and I'm not convinced they truly do ~ a lot of them are content merely to turn up and get paid...) then they want to look away from methadone-methadone-methadone. Opiate addiction can in theory be treated with any of the scores of opiates and opioids licensed to relieve pain.

Having said that I do feel "OK" on methadone. Just nowhere near as OK as on heroin.

Heroin ~ heroin. A hard nasty drug. I can barely believe I'm writing this.

This morning I was perusing the Oxford University prospectus; this afternoon I took home a "10B" ~ that is, a fifth of a gram, a £10 bag of brown heroin ~ and then spent a good two hours unconscious in a chair. (That's what heroin does to me these days ~ either pretty much nothing, or else I'm knocked out cold ...)

I'm not willing to wait however many years until some miracle treatment makes quitting as easy as a goodly part of my would like it to be. Quitting is always possible if you want it sincerely enough. If you are determined enough. In decades past many people came off cold turkey. It was the only way out available to them.

I tried "'clucking' it out" ~ I did eight days clean, nearly lost my mind (I was acting very out of character ~ and in my parents' house). I'd never willingly do that again ...

But methadone is there for me. I'm already on a script. I'm lucky.

What's that saying? Nothing that's truly worth achieving has ever been easy~? Something like that. I would title the German translation of my still (possibly) forthcoming addict memoirs Mein Kampf ~ which means My Fight ~ for surely giving up hard drugs can only be a fight and a big fight at that ~ even with methadone... if only that title hadn't long ago been appropriated by a certain Herr Hitler ..(!)

So: tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow I pick up more methadone from my friendly pharmacist. Tomorrow I try again.

Illustrated: the evil killer B ("B" means brown heroin); syringe selection (I dread to think what kind of druggie would use the 60ml one to the far left ~ I could fit £20 of drugs into 1ml ...); Oxford Uni logo; "Bridge of Sighs", Hertford College, Oxford; a fight ~ not of the kind I'm destined for ...

Sloane Street to Memory Lane...

RIGHT IF YOU'RE READING THIS THE FIRST TIME TODAY FROM THE TOP you won't know yet that I took some amphetamines/speed I found in a tobacco tin this afternoon, which made me really garrulous and I wrote more of my memoirs in two hours than I had done all week!! Only 8 pages of handwriting, but I've repeatedly been sleeping far too much and waking up to write a page or two then it's the next day... I'm still on chapter 3, my trip to Spain and Morocco.

I'm not sure any of this chapter is strictly relevant to my book; but if I pare it down too harshly it will be a book of drugs vignettes and nothing else and hence rather boring. I have to write about other things sometimes...! Still I'm trying to keep the main thread about stuff that relates to my subsequent addiction. I.e. things that made me depressed (almost all of life), people I met (hippie student losers a lot of them. Plus some annoying Sloanes (a Sloane, in case you are foreign, is a Sloane Ranger. A person (usually female) who ranges between Sloane Square, Knightsbridge, Chelsea and Mayfair - in other words all the posh parts of London - is highly likely to be called Hilly or Tilly or Annabel or Fiona (and hey - she might be working in publishing by now... or an art gallery: just until she finds the right man; either her British male equivalent (Miles, Giles, Spencer, Sebastian - yes I know I reeled out these names before; I'm indirectly quoting my book here) boys who work in banking/stockbroking/finance; or an American "businessman" (ie someon who's even richer than Daddy or failing that someone who'll give her a nice title like Duchess of... Countess of... etc. Art History was full of them (I wish I'd known Art History was the easiest degree - I might have gone for it myself. The other subject heavily favoured by Sloanes was French. Ooo there were so many of them crowding my seminars and crowing about how jolly a time they were having slumming it in a two up two down hovel (usually Daddy buys it and collects rent money off Jemima's friends. Rich people are always after another pretty penny. Anyway these lot were quite a contrast from the German students, who tended to be a far broader and more representative social mix. Nary a Northern accent was to be heard in French class. German classes were full of them. (Note 2: if you're a foreigner: Northerners are famously down-to-earth. Also I think their accents are much nicer than the bland swathe of southern English which runs on a continuum from Cockney (Michael Caine) through Estuary (Tony Blair when he's talking down) up to Received Pronunciation (Tony Blair when he's talking posh). Anyway these Sloanes nearly drove me up the wall. Sometimes I got mistaken for posher than I was and asked what school I'd gone to - I just replied "not one you'll have heard of!" but in general the Tillies, Hillies, Annabels kept themselves to themselves. Or kept themselves with Miles, Giles, Sebastian...

When I came to university I knew few of the social "mores" and codes... E.g. I did realize the house full of girls who lived round the corner from me were more middle class than I was as they ate nothing but pasta and had a £10 a week pesto bill (that's not much of an exaggeration either!) but I had no idea at the time that Pimms was a posh drink, for instance. Or that one person's parents visited my block by helecopter (there was a "pad" at Norwich airport next door.)

Some of the girls (it's always the girls, too) were such social climbers! This showed up most transparently when one of their brothers came to stay for a weekend. Michele as she styled herself, a la francais - complete with grave accent that I can't locate here talked all lar-de-dar posh but her brother had the voice of a Yorkshire farmer! She was dating a horrible specimen from Eaton. He wanted to be a writer as well but I googled his name the other day and - hoorah! - nothing came up. Don't tell me he might use a penname I know.

Well this has gone totally off the point. But I'm going to have to incorporate most of what I said into my book as it will explain how I managed to end up feeling so badly out of place.

In the end I got fed up on the one hand of vulgar people who told me (OK they didn't always tell me but they thought it;) "You think you're so posh." My answer: "No YOU think I'm posh!" And on the other of the haut bourgeoisie who as I said sometimes assumed I was one of them when I was not, or thought I had been one of them but was slumming it. I remember one person honestly couldn't believe I was willing to eat fish and chips straight from the paper to save washing up. "You simply must put it on a plate; really you must. They taste so much nicer that way. Do you want the balsamic vinegar to sprinkle on? What? Sarsons? Oh must you use that stuff? It's really whiffy..." And so on.

I've decided NOT to make a big deal out of my next bout of cleaning up. Wouldn't it be better if I just did it and told afterwards? Yes I think so too...

Righty-ho it's 9:56pm I'd better go.

(I got that expression from someone called Joey who came from the Wirral (Liverpool). When he was trying to get rid of his parents on the phone he'd start saying, "righty-ho then... righty-ho... righty-ho then... righty-ho... bye! Bye! Righty-ho then... bye!" Slam. Gasp of repressed exasperation. Right I am rambling like a Roborovski on a buttery wheel. Right I have to go

righty-ho then!

bye!!

***

Some good blogs

Cirkulators - intellectual photographic imagery; I've no idea where from...

Hambricks - cute baby blog from American midwest (?) - well I think it's from the midwest my American geography ain't that good...

Fi Mims Photography - Melbourne-based portrait photographer, available for weddings etc... this is fantastic stuff. FAR better than the usual run of the mill portrait photography...

Toronto Morgados - another baby blog (cute!)

Flashes Photography - more stunning (unusual) and funky wedding photos; this time from Kansas City, Missouri, USA

Monstror - very unusual, quite sinister... images by a French "graphiste"...

Slack Photography - Americans go to Mediterranean Europe

and last but not least

"anuLka" - Polish baby blog - the images are so entertaining!

Speed Virgin

I JUST "BANGED UP SPEED" FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME TODAY...

It always happens when I've "higher thoughts" on my brain...

(You know what I mean: thoughts of going clean.)

I was just waiting for the bus when a tobacco tin caught my eye. It was one of those childish ones with prominent psychedelic cannabis leaf for decoration amid swirling fractal graphics.

Expecting to find nothing within, or possibly a fagsworth of baccy I duly opened up...

Imagine my surprise... let me say there was more than a spliff'sworth of skunk inside, not to mention a package of sparkly smelly white stuff.

I was awfully cautious with this latter. It could, after all, have been anything.

I tasted it. It was really sparkly. Like coke ought to be. But wasn't coke.

I chopped it out in lines... but balked at sniffing them.

In the end, I shoved a knife-end in a spoon, mixed up, topped up with heroin, banged up... at first nothing (ho-humm)... then this ever-increasing, ever-pleasing dizzy took the top off my head and rose rose rose ever so gently... this was speed. Not too much of it (thankfully) and ever so mild.

First time in my life I've ever "banged it up" (years ago I always dabbed it just like sherbert... or snorted it at a push though I thought that was a waste of good nose tissue...)

So that's a first... and no doubt a last.

I'm not nineteen any more. I don't feel that one more novel drugs experience is extra furnishing for my life... I don't think like that anymore.

I'm speaking as one whose gone so far into addiction that the "buzz" of the drugs high - whatever drugs you're talking about it really doesn't matter. Addiction is one condition. The drugs are all different. But the bitter end is one place and the same no matter which chemical key unlocked the door.

In the absolute depths of addiction, I, who had lived from daydream to daydream (or plan to plan; I would have personally called them) stopped daydreaming at all, except for looking forward to my next pipe or fix or drink. At my very depths I woke up each morning feeling like I was lying face down on a pavement and banging my head downdown... pointless hopeless. Even though I knew I'd get the drugs I knew the next day and the next would be just the same and just as miserable.

So when I briefly and willingly went on Subutex (buprenorphine) for a month or so... and rebounded back to life with a shocking velocity... I realized, watching the TV news etc. that for the previous two, three years of my life no TV programme had ever spoken to me, no newspaper written for me, no ordinary person spoken to me. For I'd pushed myself so far to the edge of life and society I was barely any longer part of the "human race"... let alone the "rat race"...

Thankfully over the intervening time I've slowly drifted back. Partly it was that moment of clarity that shocked me back.

It's been more than telling that in my moments of fantasy before/after buying lottery tickets drugs don't feature in such multimillionaire's fantasy. Not even glamorous sparkling lines of cocaine. I know from my crack experiences that coke - in whatever form, it really doesn't matter; the mode of ingestion only alters the rapidity and economy of the drug's absorbtion into the system - only ends in darkness and madness. The lab monkeys hooked up to IV heroin and coke took heroin and lived ordinary monkey lives. The coke monkeys did nothing. Nothing at all. Didn't eat or drink or breed or sleep or do anything else except take more coke from the push-leaver that delivered it direct to their veins (equivalent to crack infusing lungs to brain in a human; it hits you within 20 seconds and it's overwhelmingly strong. And succeeds purely in making you crave more-more-more...)

So that's my little diatribe of the day...

Drugs! Who'd have 'em, eh?!?

***

Video of the day:

Whitney Houston - Queen of the Night...

It's the words that get me:

I've got the stuff that you want,
I've got the thing that you need -
I've got more than enough
To bring you down to your knees...

Go speak for yourself, Whitney!

Slap-Bang WALLOP <(;->...

OK SO THE INEVITABLE HAS HAPPENED. How long I was going to stay illicit-drug clean... who knows? It was in my hands only ... My fate remains in my hands only ... Already I am bored with using again. I only used heroin, not crack. Crack I really hope I can say really is in the trashcan of the past...

People keep telling me I have a "needle fixation". This is because I so love pronging metal spears into my body. In fact on on a couple of occasions I remember feeling so enraptured with the process of injecting I actually got more of a buzz out of that than off the heroin. Heroin gets very boring. As I said the other day it is only ever a mild-feeling drug (that's one of the many ways it deceives its users - because it feels far milder than it actually is). And it's a painkiller. So what it does best is removes sensation rather than giving it as other drugs do, e.g. speed, cocaine...

This morning on the Today Programme on Radio 4 an anaesthetist came on to talk about research they're doing into how conscious you actually are when you're too "unconscious" to follow a conversation. (E.g. when you're under a pre-med but haven't been zonked out totally yet by the intravenous infusion.) I have to say I was thinking or "the addict in me was thinking" as the drugs service would have me talk... what a great job that would be, hitting people up with drugs all day, sliding needles in them, knocking them out. I would make a really enthusiastic anaesthetist as I know from experience the great benefits of not feeling anything (aesthetic=Greek feeling; an-aesthetic=not feeling).

Well I'm babbling now and trying to shift focus away from the fact that I've ****ed up yet again. Ho-hum. I am only human.

But hey! Do you like my new hat? <(;->...

***


Today's video
Visage - Fade to Grey
(I purloined this from Crushed by Ingsoc's blog...)

***

Photo of the day:
Click here to view...

Photo of the day ii:
Ultra red-white-blue - click here to view...