He tried to clean up. Sometimes fleetingly; other times for longer. On occasion, professionals were called in–the blue-collar nurses and the soft and fuzzy sweatered manageria castes of the American Help Care system. Everyone would put on their serious faces; notes would be taken. (These types were generally accompanied by various acupuncturists, fakirs, and shamans because San Francisco)
But he made most of the efforts by himself, and believe me: they were countless; they were legion; they were un-fucking-remitting. Another round-up of supplies, for he had thrown away all the deedle-y, fidget-y gadgets that comes along with a drug habit. Another stare-down with the telephone.
At least one time, he came up with a cunning plan: his previous attempts had all failed because he missed the drugs too much, so what if before quitting this time–for good: 31st time’s the charm–he would do SO MANY DRUGS that missing them would be out of the question. This was a good plan, he thought. He likened it to turning into the skid. It gives him no pause that this plan is uniformly described as being so evidently foolish that a small child wouldn’t even consider it. His good feelings about the plan are aided immensely by the fact that he has conceived of, prepared for, and carried out said plan in complete secrecy. He’d show ’em. He’d show ’em all.
Drug addiction is the response of the small but significant percentage of souls that views reality with the same stupefied disgust you give the plate containing the wrong meal when it’s placed in front of you. This is not what you ordered. Fix it–recook it, throw it away and start over, something–just fix it. Your eyes scan the establishment for someone in charge, someone with authority, someone to be put on the case: no joy.
The world turns us all to rust, but some people corrode from the inside-out.
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