Okay, if you're gonna pull rank here at this recovery center, and mandate participation as a condition of staying here, I'll watch '"The Secret" with everyone else. But I'm going to wear two eye patches I stole from Roxie, and plug my ears with a strand of paper I ripped off a cigarette carton. And I'm going to be on four seroquel and two trazodone I traded JR a mini keyboard for, cause after the last group therapy session I'd decided I was done with music, forever. Really fixating on the idea of forever. But I'll sit there in front of the screen. You won't dare make me take it in. This is a drug treatment program, not a clockwork orange style violent thug conversion surgery. I don't want to wash out like that pathetic kid who plays the piano better on a meth comedown than I do on my best day but does still reflect in a hateful way many of my own deficiencies. So pathetic! I don't wanna be crushing valium pills between two rocks and snorting it up right there, not even in the back, but middle row, of the greyhound bus bringing some of us assisted living fucktard losers back to our various halfway functional residencies and kitchens. The chef I remember from the Hume who slipped and fell into a plane of tinfoil with dunes of baking soda, here and there, oases of product.