Thank you Anthony

I've recently gobbled up the autobiography of the Red Hot Chili Pepper's lead singer Anthony Kiedis titled 'Scar Tissue.'

This book has come at a timely point in my life where hard drugs have come back into my sphere of existence. For a very very long it wasn't a problem that I had to deal with as I haven't had any sort of a real steady drug connection since high school. If something were to come available I would always catch wind of it but it was the random bag of mushrooms or a friend that wanted to split a couple hits of acid, now and again there would be a couple tabs of ecstasy that were for sale at an exorbitant price. None of those drugs have ever really scared me though, never really got my pulse racing quite as much as painkillers and coke.

Only one other time since I was in high school have I truly questioned my lust for intoxication, for drugs. My grandmother passed away and there were a lot of painkillers and a bottle of liquid morphine left in her room, as I had been staying there, I knew this and jumped on it right away. The painkillers were an old friend and I was ecstatic that I had so many that were so strong, they wouldn't last long.

The morphine, now that was something different. Something to be approached with caution. I had never done it before, didn't know how strong it was or really what to do with it. I wanted it to be like the movies, where when you take it you are immediately transformed, turned and turned, floating on that opiate sea. It was morphine that was flavored like cough syrup, orange flavor. The bottle was new, seal had never even been cracked. I was nervous, on the tale of losing someone I felt I should be more cautious than I usually am not to get all fucked up and cause a scene that might involve o.d'ing or passing out for some amazing amount of time.

Having the bottle around it was a constant temptation to just sip it, check it out. I remember being impressed with myself that I was able to wait so long to try it, but I wanted the perfect chance. It came when everyone decided to take off for the day, I stayed behind, feeling 'ill' sweating and shifty at the prospect of trying out a new drug. Nothing ever moves as quickly as you want it to when your waiting to get fucked up.

When everyone finally drove off and I was safely assured that they were on their way I began the walk down that long hallway- both literally and figuratively. The hallway to the room I was staying in ran nearly the entire length of the house and with each step I felt myself reaching elevating levels of anticipation. All of those emotions were old familiars, it felt like I was dusting an ancient part of myself off. I've always loved trying something new. If I feel like it is potentially a seriously dangerous risk I'd go ahead and do it, but only do a little bit at first. I wouldn't dive right in, and I did stop to consider things before leaping in, but in the end I would take the plunge regardless.

I was shaking as I was cracking the seal on the bottle, I savored the smell, looked at the syrupy concoction in the sunlight, tasted a little on my tongue, knowing and committing to memory that this would be the first time I would drink liquid morphine. I drank a large gulp. Waited. And waited. I felt pleasant but I could feel that way with a couple hits of weed. So I drank another gulp. Waited. I was so excited my pulse must have been through the roof, maybe if I hadn't drank it at such an elevated level of being I would have felt the effects quicker but as it was that stuff had a long ways to go to take me from a hysterical teen at a rock concert to a lullaby sweet opium high. So another big swig down the hatch. Ahhhhhh, here it comes, what I paid admission to see, I was decently fucked up now and it was nice, very nice. But I was a bit disappointed as it was just that. Nice. I thought it would be amazing. I walked around, reveling in the sensations my body was receiving, I liked the way my limbs felt, the way my eyes moved slowly.

What I really wanted I decided was for a legion of people to massage me all at once. My hands felt amazing on my skin, I was loving the sensation of being the kitten getting petted and being the one petting the kitten all at once. Soon I had taken off my clothes and crawled on the bed. Laying in a patch of summer sun streaming in through the window, naked, I listened to the birds chirping, felt the breeze coming in through the window billowing in the white lace curtains like ship sails, I felt I was on a voyage. I felt delicious, like I was made of velvet desert.

I missed Tristan who was thousands of miles away. Thinking about him made me feel guilty and sneaky for what I was doing and the fact that I had kept it from him so I tried not to think about him.

Instead I thought about what an orgasm would feel like while high on this delicious sauce. Touching myself I would come closer and closer to the brink but I just couldn't crest that final wave, I worked hard & fast, slow & sensuous, it wasn't happening. Soon I just wore myself out, I was tired out from all the hard work and that pesky orgasm was slipping further and further out of my reach. So, I decided not to make the trip all about the destination and stopped to enjoy the rest of the ride on coast.

I got a pen and paper and wrote a couple of poems, they are unfinished to this day but I like the quality they posses, they are in themselves a very inspired moment in time. Deciding that I wanted to see what dreaming would be like on this I got out my dream journal and laid down to take a nap. Sleep was thick, like a deep hot descent, dreamless and heavy. When I woke up everyone was home, I looked around scared that some sort of wacky evidence might have been left in the open but found everything to be in place, that bottle called out to me, just take another drink and go back to that sleep, it might be better with more. But I didn't, and I knew that taunting would not go away unless I did go back to sleep, so I did.

The next day I called up my good friend and offered to trade the rest of the bottle for a bag of weed. Of course she readily agreed and I was glad to be rid of it. That siren hadn't stopped singing my name since she came into my possession, I was scared of her song.

After that experience I was open to suggestion. My self imposed exile from hard narcotics had been lifted, I was now officially looking for that good time. I filled that slot with painkillers and weed, soon I would have as much drugs as I could muster up the money for. Once your looking your bound to find it. It was a slow and gracious descent into drug lust, the very same lust that haunts me today. I know that I would have a far less cavalier approach to drugs if anything truly bad had ever happened to me as a result of drugs. As of today, that hasn't happened and so the lust smolders.