She Used To Make Me Happy...

… that bitter, brown queen, as you might have heard before. I wish she still did, but she doesn’t anymore, the old bitch. But to be fair (and I know it sounds just like a bad cliché): I think it’s really me, not her.

I switched to alcohol, full-time, long ago anyway. We seem to be a better team somehow. Anyhow, despite all the work I put into this relationship - and trust me I don’t lack passion in this particular department - we’ve had our troubles, too, lately. No matter how much you love someone, if you spend all the time together, you’re bound to clash sometimes. Trying to liven up the situation by bringing in other partners into the mix isn’t always the best idea either.

Now, all wishy-washy metaphorical faggotry aside, here’s how it can go:

My last weekend was one single, full-blown binge, from Friday to Monday, during which I naturally didn’t sleep at all. I didn’t bother eating and I didn’t bother drinking anything that wasn’t at least 10% proof. I had gallons of beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, tequila… you name it, along with as many Valium and assorted pills as I could get my hands on. To stay awake, I started out by snorting some cocaine, and later I switched to regular speed, which I ended up just swallowing dry when I got too fucked up to even properly cut it. Must have been a few grams on the whole, but I can’t really tell. It’s dirt cheap, if you know the right people.

How I spent my time is beside the point. I guess I was out partying Friday night. Some clubs, some bars – some partying, some fighting – win some, lose some. The sun came up, went down and came up again. I guess. My consciousness just went down, period, and hid God knows where. Apparently, so did my momentary state of health as well.

By Saturday night I started throwing up blood, which I’ve grown kind of accustomed to by now. Other people, however, obviously haven’t. Granted, it might have sounded strange, and maybe a little alarming, if you’re not used to it; hearing someone puke out of an empty stomach, again and again for minutes at a time, only interrupted by more or less successful attempts at gasping for air. Someone wanted to call an ambulance so I fled, puking into a bag.

By Sunday, the pain in my stomach and throat became so excruciating I couldn’t even force down any alcohol anymore – a problem I bravely managed to solve by starting to do heroin instead. That probably doesn’t make much sense to anybody, but at the moment I was quite pleased with myself and my ingenious achievement. Then I started passing out and hallucinating - first at someone’s place, then on the way somewhere on foot, then finally at home.

Minor black-outs – no biggie.

After maybe three hours of sleep, I tried to get back on track by having a good meal after all I had put my stomach through over the weekend. Well, after a glass of water and a piece of bread the size of my toe made me throw up for half an hour again I decided to get myself a pint of whiskey instead. And despite my sickness it worked a lot better; it always does. Really something to rely on, that stuff. A trusted old friend.

And this was just a random example of a rather typical weekend in my life right now. Just thought I’d share a story, like people do sometimes when they’re bored, or feel oddly wise for a moment. Or maybe they just have an editor that can be a slight pain in the ass sometimes, crying for more articles to hack up.

I’m not complaining about my current state, mind you, as I realize I don’t have to do any of this, and this little weekend-review most definitely isn’t some desperate cry for help. I only have a slight physical dependence on alcohol – that’s it. I don’t need anything else, and usually there’s not much craving for it either. I just need to drink. I do. I don’t always enjoy it but it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Seriously. My sober moments consist of nothing but thoughts of suicide and self-pity, and frankly, thinking those thoughts just doesn’t feel very good. I would rather be drunk off my mind. Just take my word for it.

During that time I wrote about in my old Heroin article you could have called me somewhat of a lounge-junkie or something. Now I’m not fit for any lounges, anywhere, anymore. I’m not any more addicted to these substances today, than I was back then, yet my new approach is completely different. I’m not dependent on drugs, I’ve just sort of become obsessed with death and disease. I may do it all as an excuse to slowly destroy my body because I can’t do it consciously - even though I’m kind of aware of it at the same time. Then again, most people cheat themselves in one way or another. Call me a wuss, see if I care.

The weird thing is, I don’t even feel weird about it. It seems like the first rational and consistent thing I’ve done all my life. I finally found a cause - and that feels pretty good. I am on a sub-conscious suicide crusade, in slow motion. I guess.

Good enough, in fact, that I’ll just keep it to myself. Tomorrow I will go back to where people think I belong, to do whatever people think needs to be done, and I will hide it so well that not a single person or friend will notice there’s a damn thing “wrong” with me. I will hide it so well that maybe one day even I will forget all about it myself.

You never know.




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