Wednesday, March 16, 2005

I am not a substance abuser.

So I want you to think really carefully about how my day has been going when I tell you that: I woke up in need of a massage. By noon, I needed a cigarette or 20. By 2:30 I was dreaming of a fifth of whiskey. By 4:30 I was trying to figure out which of my ritzy neighbors in my ritzy building pays the rent by slinging ritzy grade A narcotics. By 6:30 I had blacked out the previous two hours and had retreated, in my mind, to my happy place. It's ten-'til-eight, I've got another four hours in my day, and I'm thinking the only thing that can help me now is my very own blankie and matching drool cup, you know, for after my electroshock therapy--the treatment I'm given at the asylum I'm sent to after I black out and the voices convince me to kill the whores. Or whatever.


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