Loud Speaker Story Telling

It’s 6 o’clock in the morning, I feel like it’s always either 6:00 am or 6:00 pm and I haven’t slept or I’m just waking up. I spent the last 5 1/2 days sober and hiding from the entire world, only to emerge and remember that I hate everyone. Seriously. I especially hate social networking, I hate drug blogs and blogging, I hate the meth tag on tumblr and I’m so tired of seeing pictures of bruised fucking arms in my dashboard. Hey kids, those aren’t track marks— those are bruises and don’t worry, they’ll be gone soon enough. Bruises are temporary reminders of a brief lapse in judgment, a mistake; track marks are like speakers you’ve had permanently fixed to your body, speakers which for the rest of your life are loudly broadcasting your regrets, failures, mistakes, weaknesses and insecurities. Track marks are the irremovable high-volume speakers that scream your worst kept secret to the entire world as you frantically attempt to muffle the sound. And ya know, it must really be nice to have veins so healthy that your syringe doesn’t fall out of your arm while your steady hand snaps a few quick selfies.. yeah, must be really nice. And even though your caption says you have no veins left, I can clearly see several that I would gladly take off your hands (or arms, ha) if you aren’t going to use them.

I just hate things, I think I’m bitter.. maybe just a little. Whatever. Things suck right now and nothing makes me happy or gives me even the slightest feeling of fulfillment. That’s probably why I’m never online anymore, I just don’t have anything new to blog about. My life stays the same, every week, every single day— it’s always just the same. Wake up. Shoot up. Continue self-loathing while spending the entire day getting ready to leave the house. Never leaving the house. Stressing about not having left the house in days. Shooting up again. Cleaning what’s been cleaned twelve times already. Stressing about various problems which are always relatively minor. Shooting up again out of stress. Realizing the bag is empty, stressing again. Spending several hours tracking down meth, driving to location where exchange will take place, waiting. Anxiously driving home. Shooting up again. Then there’s maybe an hour or so of calm, which is followed by more stress. Guilt provoking phone calls from my family, friends. Self-loathing, self-hating self-thrown pity party (at which I shoot more meth) and if it’s a good day I’ll pop a few benzos while drinking a vodka cranberry.. or five while fighting my body for three or four hours until finally falling asleep. Then I wake up, shoot up and do it all over again.

Why would I turn on my laptop every day only to tell you that exact sequence of events? After a while it’s just not that interesting, not even if I overly describe my descriptions and vividly illustrate every single dramatized emotion until you’re so captivated that you remain completely unaware of it’s similarity to the previous day. Or how closely it resembles the two before that, ya know.. creative writing and shit. But truth be told, if you were to remove all the adjectives and simplify my vocabulary— you’d be left with a story you’ve already heard too many times. After a while it becomes increasingly annoying to have to write down.. so I don’t. Plus, it sucks when you come to the realization that everything you have to say has already been said a dozen times and you’re forced to accept that your life’s become repetitively uninteresting. Fucking depressing. Shit.

So when I’m depressed, self-loathing and repeating an outdated story to myself while poking my arm like a goddamn pin cushion, the LAST fucking thing I want to see is a fucking picture of your perfectly bruised arm full of beautiful veins I no longer have. It honestly makes me hate you a little because you’re bitching about getting high when I haven’t been high in weeks and you’re fucking up one arm that I’d trade both mine (and maybe my car) for in a heartbeat.

I’ll do my best not to be so bitter.. but only if you can try your very hardest not to paint your bedroom to look like rock bottom when you haven’t even started tumbling yet. Kid, you don’t know a damn thing about vein pain yet.. don’t be in such a hurry to race to the end because once you’re there.. what’s left?

Good morning.. it’s 6 o’clock in the fucking morning. Again.