Low

Where do I go now? What corner? I’m utterly unenthused with everything. All I can think of is to do drugs, but I don’t have any I want. I don’t want uppers. I just want a good downer. I have an opiate but it’s not good enough. I’d take gravol if I had some. I wouldn’t mind hallucinating. I’m tempted to do DXM. Maybe I should do it when I’m tempted, and not when I’m not, like when I usually do it. When I usually do it, I practically have to force myself.

Quite honestly, I feel bad from the pot. I’m a bit drunk too, but it’s really the pot leaving me with this nasty physical mental feeling. All pain is amplified. Aches everywhere. It’s a feeling like crap stone. Really nasty. And it seemed to burn all the creativity and enthusiasm out of me, too. I’d take 5htp, but I worry it hurts my stomach. I kind of crave delirium right now. I feel blah, and a bit fucked up, but at the same time, way too lucid.

My blog seems so lonely. Message boards desolate. Nothing satisfies. I just want to be on some good downers. Not the boring old mainstays of pot and alcohol. Large doses of legal pharmaceuticals would do it for me. DXM, dimenhydrinate, xanax. I wouldn’t do E if I had it, I don’t want to be up, involved in some stupid venture. I just want to retreat deep into my head, my subconscious, surrealism, cryptic symbolism, meaning that I feel, but don’t understand. Give me a twilight state, please.

Maybe I’ll take some more vallies I guess. Never mind naproxem, pain medication seems a little strained, a stretch, gratuitous. Silly, cause I’d do smack if I had some.

My home is an empty shell. My computer is an empty shell. My self is an empty shell.

Maybe I should buy lynze that book about the giant redwood canopies.

Sopranos is over, I’m starting not to really care much, good ride I guess, move on. Sniffing my fingers again. I can’t seem to stop, been doing that a lot lately. It’s like pringles. What the hell is that? Why am I addicted? Is it the smell? Yes, but maybe it’s also the feeling. They work in tandem I guess. It’s weird. It’s my secret habit. Never been caught, as far as I know. But I am routinely so compelled to do it, that I risk it all the time, in public, with friends, etc. Although social situations often suppress the need, get my mind off it. I mainly do the finger sniffing thing when my mind, and my hands, are idle. Not always though.

I’m so blah and blasé. I just want drugs, drugs I don’t have. Fuck it, I don’t want to swallow more vallie caps, but I will. Cause I’m restless, and sluggish at the same time, which sucks. I want to tip the scales to down, so I can sleep, and then get back on artistic and creative things. At least states where I crave stimulants anyway. I was gonna drink coffee all night and work on the script, but I drank some tequila, and smoked some dope, and got this dopey despair about me. And that nasty tension I get with cannabis. There isn’t really good pot and bad pot for me. Pot is pot. Fun sometimes, enhancing sometimes, but often enhancing the wrong things, psychosomatic grit, sore noise generation, weaving patterns of paranoia I can feel in my joints, reworking of jittery neurons.

I can’t listen to any music, it’s all bullshit. All my art is bullshit. Tired, pointless. I don’t feel all that sad though, just blank and bored and blah. It’s sad, but it’s not that deep sadness, that sick sinking feeling that I get on a crash. I don’t feel crashed, I feel like I was never up to begin with. I’m just low, dirty, mired in the mud.

Certain fingertips smell good. Steak and potatoes. Filling, vital. Like they’re the only thing left with any value in the world. Pennies, currency. Current. Au Courante. The drug that satisfies for as long as a sniff. So I keep sniffing. Cigarettelets, vapour snuffs. The drug that makes the inside of my nose sore. That I worry is responsible for me feeling congested all the time – maybe fingertip bacteria is infecting my nasal cavities, or maybe that’s just hypochondria. Maybe my recent chronic seeming congestion is hereditary, faulty genes passed down from my dad. I’ll be bald too, some day. But my vision is strangely okay. Adequate, anyway.

I read chelsea’s blog a bit, wondered if she read my comments. I was happy to see chels, one of the few who commented on my song. She intrigues me. I like saying her name too. Thinking it. But I can’t read much in this state. And I haven’t been reading much in a while. I can’t absorb information that way very easily anymore. I can do it, but I tend to have to force myself. What does this imply? Did I just get lazy? But that means I lost my passion for reading. I just don’t really like it anymore. I prefer to read in little chunks, magazine or message board format, articles, columns, posts. Although I can barely stand poems. To be honest, I’d much sooner read a short story than a poem. And yet I’m a poet. I participate in a few circle jerks, I see how cynical and sick it all is, but it’s something anyway, I’m coming to accept it, so what if it isn’t perfect and pure?