A Really Precious Story.

"I was born with a sickness in my head. I have to pour thoughts like tea, coffee and all the other suburban delicacies that your average Midwestern twenty year old will guzzle down their gullet, without care. not to think of where it came from, how it was made or if it will hurt my body ten, twenty years from now. it doesn't matter. just whatever it is, please let it get me a little high.

let it have something. an extra. a plus. a prize. a token. that something more that keeps you coming back, and gets you up on the very first hit or sip.

the first time i knew i had the sickness was in elementary school. the writing award that got passed around the class revolved around me only, really. it wasn't that anything that i wrote was good, obviously. it was just that i seemed to enjoy it to a much greater degree than the rest of my snot picking peers.

my relationship with my peers has and always will be just that: They pick their noses, and I watch. I just watch and see you acting bizarre, but it isn't really bizarre to anyone else because all the rest of the people are following suit in the very same behavior that can only be chalked up to human nature, and what a foul disgusting thing that can so often be.

i've watched a lot of things happen. i've watched people being abused, people having sex, i've seen body parts and enough shit and piss in the world to choke the herds of civilization and leave this piece, this disgusting boulder in the galaxy, an empty stinking pit of nothingness.

i've seen beauty, i've felt good and been so high I thought for a moment I was living the life that every advertisement has told me that I should be. Yeah, I've been there. I'm just a human too, I guess. It would be a fault of mine to say that I am different or special. There are plenty of people out there, just like me, who don't really participate in life. They just aren't making a spectacle of it, like I am. They are eating their T.V. dinners and jerking off to pornography and doing all the things that humans usually do.. well, I suppose there is art, beauty, music and all of that. But what is art but scribbles? What is music but noise? It is all just a cheap thrill, a little something to make the ride seem like less of a pass through the bowels of an infected bovine.

Is there meaning to be found in anything once you've gone that far off from your fellow man, to the point where you can only observe them? much like a scientist staring into a petri dish at the aborted fetus of a rat; at that point, what else is there to do but shoot it up and see what turns black and falls off first.."
-Letters from an open wound.