A Collection of Short Verse about my Crackpipe

Copyright ? 2001-2004, Patrick Karel Kroupa

All Rights Reserved

/ Out-takes & Excerpts /

Pieces of mind and other fragments;
which escaped, gathered momentum
and found life sumplace else...

Art by Dross - Copyright (C) 2001, Drew Ross

Light falls down like rain, in drifts, torrents ... endless eddies and ripples, touching the peripheries and edges of place and time, currents of energy infusing kaleidoscopic sprays of vibrancy and breathing life into moments without connections. Like blowing the dust from an old reel of monochromatic film, where a single frame is infused with meaning that reaches outwards, touching, caressing... sifting the weight of time and space from an endless collection of memory.

Moving without destination, places where the energy has departed, leaving something resembling a faded photograph from some other life, sifting through pools of time - knowing that the lack of destination and purpose is in itself a lie, because there are places you don't go, corners you turn and run into blind alleyways, where the moments never die or fade; seeming to gain strength proportionate to the amount of effort and years of time that have been spent avoiding them, trying to edit them, non-exist and kill them out.

There is no distance in memory, everything that ever was - still is, 5 minutes... 5 years, all the actions taken or not-taken, and ultimately... finally, everything in the near past or non-past, leads back to this place. There is nowhere else to turn, to move, to escape . . . I have spent years trying, but every brightly-lit superhighway dead-ends here, and there is nowhere I can run, nowhere to go, no place to hide, where ultimately I will not re-awaken to this same fucking end-of-time, where all things terminate and problems have no solutions, because its over, done, finished. And I try to expend a great deal of energy, telling myself the latter, but somehow it never seems to change the fact that my soul feels like pieces of bleeding meat hanging from an electrified barbed-wire fence.

All strength begins in weakness, all craft starts with a spark of desire and a few stumbling steps forward. But this is the place I have spent years trying to fade-out. It is a space I arrive mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. And it is a landscape that has come into existence in the not-too-distant past. The concepts of power and strength are meaningless here. There is no meaning... no reason... no absolution.

Whoever and whatever I think I am, thought I was, and am evolving into, all come to a standstill here. Here, nothing I ever learned works, and every moment of time, every iota of energy that has been given birth from this non-space, is always nothing more than holding up a mirror. Here is where I finally lost, here is where I get my ass kicked-in every time I even face in its direction, and here is where we're going for a ride, because it seems that all roads lead to this fucking place anyway.

"Well on the one hand, it's all very simple. We can detox people off opiates using ibogaine, with no pain, no withdrawal, no cravings. And I mean, not only detox them, but completely reset their brain chemistry.

On the other hand, how does this help someone who has never known anything except addiction; who has no skills, no education, and no coping mechanisms for dealing with life sober.

Ultimately I am forced to conclude that the latter part of the equation, is really not my fucking problem. They can call a goddamn social worker, or go join a cult."

"You're so cool, you don't give a fuck about anything. I love you."

"You're such an asshole, you don't give a fuck about anything. I hate you."

"Hi, my problem is I'm pregnant. I'm 14."

Well, have you talked to your parents, or planned-parenthood or something?

"No, I can't. It's my brother's. He's 12."

As speed approaches that of light time approaches zero, unless you're a tachyon which in this revision-level of reality can out-run light by a factor of 4.7, but it better not get busted for steroids, because even if steroid use is 100% in professional athletics and it has spent its entire life working up to being the fastest tachyon in the multiverse, they will still take its gold medal away from it and it'll never make the cover of the Wheaties box that way and gain no further revenue from commercial endorsements or copies of "Objectively Moving through Subjective Time using Faster than Light Tunneling -- Hangin' at the Event Horizon of a Black Hole" written by ghosts, personally that would be bad, impersonally every other tachyon will see this, start to believe, and they will be moving at 5.2 within a very short frame of time, which is squishy, like wavicles and rubber ducks, but also my brain, which is grey matter and shouldn't be confused with dark matter, or a wormhole could open and a SHARP drive might fall through it and where would the little lizards in my room be then, because unless you believe, the eco-system will eat you, instead of versa-VISA, which even when covered in gold is not as good as AMEX, which has no limits, like chaos which is a much better theory, and much closer to being in-vivo, vs. in-vitro, just like endogenous is more convenient than exogenous in some cases, especially those when TNT is doing a sweep and you can't find a dealer, in which the case will be dismissed for illegal search and seizure, using escalators within levels of elevated hormones might make the little dog outside which is crying again, un-hungry, but this is doubtful, 'cuz its life will be suffering, unless Buddha just pet it once inna while and fed the fuckin' thing instead of sitting under trees, down-regulating its metabolic function, which is all-good for him, the worst thing starvation ever leads to is a six-pack and an objective slowdown in biological aging but the paradox is, the little dog doesn't need a six-pack, it just needs to enter a good 12 step program full of unloved, abused, hungry little dogs, and whine once inna while. Because on one hand you have a near spherical kick-toy named Fluffy with a bow in its hair, which should be destroyed, while on the other hand is a coating of acyclovir.

Probably, it's the hungry little dog's own fault. If it were a Superluminal instantiation of a hungry little dog, it would get fed even before it got hungry, and instead of salivating, it could bite Pavlov in the ass when he started that bullshit with the fucking bell. I mean, who told it to incarnate in Thailand anyway.

"Whatever you do, never talk about drugs again in interviews, you did that too much. Now listen to me, even though you're insane, you have to hear this and understand it. Never be photographed with a cigarette in your mouth, it's very de-classe. Also, you slouch and have terrible posture, make sure your girlfriends are always at least 5'8" -- you stand up straight when you're with tall girls."

Oh. Okay, well, did I miss anything?

"I'm sure you did because you're crazy now, but you were always very smart, when Betty Ford detox's you from those needles you'll still have most of your mind left."

Will I?

"Yes, but first they have to remove the Ibogaine. All of this is completely your father's fault, he always lets you run around doing crazy things instead of having you locked up somewhere for your own good. Of course your father is an idiot."

Anyway, it's been . . . Really, uhm, just like old times.

"Just tell me the truth, you did a lot of drugs in all those dirty countries didn't you? I know you and I know you did. Why can't you go somewhere nice and do drugs like a civilized person."

The thing is I re-remember all this shit I chose to so conveniently forget. 'Cuz the end results rock out, but I mean, I spaced it. Heroin does miracles for manic-depression. But this is so far beyond driven, it's like being fuckin' possessed. I mean / [transmission coming through...] / Look I've slept 15 minutes in the last 3 days, leave me the fuck alone / [shut up - get up - eat NoDoz and go] / I don't want to, I just want to sleep / [...] / All fucking right goddamn it -- but I mean, couldn't you just do this shit for me? I can only take dictation so fast.

What does not kill you DOES make you stronger, but power in and of itself only amplifies the level of pain, it is flow without resonance. Life IS suffering, but only because suffering is caused by being de-tuned, unable to process the pain, which would allow re-tuning, Shiva dancing on the broken back of forgetfulness. Jung passes the filter on almost every level, just some of his models are needlessly messy and complex, when compared to other ways of presenting the data. "Where there is love, there is no need for power, where there is absolute power, there is a lack of love." Absolute power, can "corrupt" absolutely, where there is love/empathy/compassion, you are in-tune, in flow, this gives absolute power, drifting out of flow and focusing on that fact, is painful, but the power is still there. Everything really strong and really out of tune, was once aligned, and is suffering tremendously, because it knows what it means to resonate, even if it cannot get back there at this moment in time.

Ultimately you cannot ever kill or extinguish anything but yourself on this level.

. . . That's pretty heavy. So what do ya do to deal with all the abuse?

"I draw pictures of people in fetal positions, bleeding."

Oh . . . well that sounds really great. In like charcoals right?

"No, I used to do that but it depressed me. I'm using pastels and watercolors now. Also could you please ask all the guys in the group to stop referring to women as 'pussy,' I find that personally objectionable and a violation of my boundaries."

"Today is a great day. My plumber has taken the money I gave him to buy materials and invested it in crack, so of course he hasn't got the time to fix my bathroom and I can't take a shower. Half the people who live here are missing, and I can pretty much guess what they're doing -- the other half will relapse tomorrow when they get paid or their trust-fund checks are released. I pull up to my house and two of the only three people here who are not doing drugs, are the same fucking idiots who have apparently decided to set fire to my driveway. Lorraine, who is supposed to be in charge is sitting on the steps watching this and seems to think it's just splendid. I love my life. Patrick, tell ya what, I'll give you $100 bucks, go get high, shoot some heroin, come back and pass out on the couch QUIETLY without cranking the stereo, and we'll just pretend it never happened.

Fuck this, I'm going to sleep. After 5 years clean I am starting to realize that life without drugs is unendurable. Why do I even bother."

"All either one of you does is stomp around all day slamming shit -- doors, weights, yourselves -- then eat enough food for 10 people and sit around bitching about everything. Why even bother opening the bloody door, just walk through the fucking wall, both of you have about as much grace as the terminator. You're also total slobs who leave shit laying all over the place and chain-smoke while working out, I used to be a physical trainer, and that makes me sick. The reason I'm still shooting dope is because I'm forced to live in the same space as the two of you. Everything is completely your fault."

Dude mahn, that is so harsh n' shit. Why do people from Australia and England say "bloody" all the time?

"Fucking wankers."

This was totally NOT in-tune. The application of will, WILL move mountains, but without mediation by intellect/reason, harmony -- no matter where you move 'em to, they will eventually land in dialysis with heart and liver problems, because the force working against will is time/attrition, which you cannot loop out of in this linearity. Without harmony, resonance and flow, the force of will is eventually driven to its knees and into dust. I am the evening sky, watching empires die.

"Sometimes I just want to do anything I can to help people. Because I have compassion, understanding . . . empathy for them. Chances are I've probably been wherever they're at right now. At other times, I have the realization that the entire planet is completely filled with fucking idiots who are just littering it up, and should all die."

"...so that's what we do here. What do you do in the west?"

For the most part, people go to a lot of shrinks and talk ... endlessly.

"Why?"

The theory is to gain some sort of insight into your behavior so that you might be able to effect change.

"Does it work?"

Not really, but it gives people something to do. Does your system work?

"Not really -- it used to. People would show up after 20-30 years of opiate addiction, take the treatment, stay 12 days, and be cured. But one of the most important things was their belief. The kids don't believe in anything anymore, the same ones are through here 7, 8, 10 times. Your culture is destroying society."

Yeah well, ya know, shit happens.

"Yes it does. And, it's okay. It's just how things are now."

"So I keep hearing that doing Ibogaine, is like going through 30 years of therapy in one shot... So, like, does this mean that it would have taken 300 years of therapy for you to get to where you're at right now? I mean, I don't want to judge or anything, but it's not like you're all that stable."

Uhm . . . lemme formulate a theory, and get back to ya on that.

Okay, after wearing out the outside of my thumb on my right hand into a bloody blister, just from flicking my bic, my left hand is now in the same situation. I have run out of hands -- though not lighters. One of these days you hafta ask that girl, uhm, Jessica? What exactly was in her mind when purchasing my supplies that would induce her to buy me one carton of cigarettes and a box containing 70 lighters. I meant to ask her that, but never got the chance.

I hate myself, I hate everyone, I love you... What are we saying- I'm holding up a mirror, I have total resonance with pieces of you, within which I see myself, I can no longer find any of this within myself, because there's just this black hole, I MUST get the fuck outta myself in order to save myself, because even if 90% is set on self-destruct, the remaining 10% is desperately trying anything possible to survive. Okay let's do SOMETHING.

The cycle spins, and lands on...

"Well really there are two schools of thought on this topic. The first one - which is OSHA approved - goes something like, 'you need three sets of latex gloves, a Tyvek suit, and a faceplate, or at the very least goggles and a mask.' Personally I tend to subscribe more to the second one, which basically amounts to; 'try not to stick the pen in your mouth, after you've used the cap to probe regions of the brain.'

Tide with that protein-lifting shit, will wash CSF and blood right out. You just need to be careful about the prions, they're always FLYING out of EVERYTHING. But, if nothing has killed you by now, they probably won't either."

Flashing past through pieces of time... How many of them have washed ashore here, found themselves beached upon endless half-lit rooms of blue light. An eternal chiaroscuro of jagged shadows thrusting outward from the spilled light of muted television screens; running out into darkness where they meet . . . nothing.

The periphery of edges and final end-points, where here terminates and elsewhere begins... The possibility of a thousand journeys that exit from this place and breath life into different landscapes. How many times I've been here, how little it has changed . . . how easy it would be to step off, disappear here, pass through a juncture in time that opens out upon an infinite, dark, vast ocean of nothingness.

How comforting it has always seemed to have this option, to pass through the door in the wall and just keep going; never again having to deal with any of the shit that litters the well-worn pathways, strewn with discarded bottles, pills, and syringes . . . the empty frames of time where the results were not as paint-by-the-numbers as I would have expected or wanted.

All of them leading upwards to this pinnacle; sloping steeply downward to a crack in the walls, where it is possible to vanish, to have real rest, peace, oblivion . . . for a while. Finally and ultimately erasing the traces that have breathed life into this existence for a while; given it some form of animation, light, energy . . . misdirected fury, hatred and rage...

Dissolving, drowning, dissipating within warm, blue-black waves of numbness unraveling into the event horizon on the road to oblivion . . .

Uhm, okay. So you're doin' okay 'cuz you smoke crack, then still manage to get on the school bus and go to 6th grade every morning. Was that your reasoning?

"Yo dog, don't fuckin' dis' me. You have any idea how hard it is to do that?"

I was just wondering. Are you damned? See 'cuz I mean, I know you're trying and all, but like, what I'm seeing is the same as every other place I've been to, and to be honest with ya, it just doesn't seem to be working out all that well. On the other hand, it does make for really excellent, bad surrealism.

"Well let's see. JC now spends his nights standing in front of the Cuban deli across the street pan-handling change for rocks. Mark cashed his check and then followed Wilson's lead and stole his Boss' van, so now there's a warrant out on him. Rod is in jail. Jim is on his 9th relapse and just got paid so I don't expect to see him for a few days. Felix was last seen walking out of the liquor store down the block with a hooker . Jonathan couldn't make it through his door, bounced off the walls for a while and then took off down the street without any shoes on. Steve, well I know what he's doing, but as long as he keeps sweeping up the sidewalks and cutting the grass during the one or two days a week he makes it home, I don't care. But see, you're clean and I take full credit for you. I know being here has made all the difference for you."

Oh absolutely, it's changed my life.

"I'm sure it has. The question is, what can I learn from this?"

That it's time to fulfill your true destiny and just go get another Harley and a 16-year-old girl with a dog collar and leash?

"Don't need another Harley, but the 16-year-old would work. What doesn't seem to be working is anything else. Everybody here goes to the rooms, says all the right things and then goes and gets high. Every one of these assholes comes in here from some kind of detox or treatment program, this is supposed to be a 3/4way house, not a full-treatment center. If these guys want to get high, why do they come here, pay me and get hassled, when they could check into some hotel for the same money and get high all they want. This implies they want to stop using drugs. But of course they don't. And you, you've never listened to a word I said and you're clean. Explain it to me, this used to work. People got better, is everyone sicker now, I'm losing it, what's happening here?"

Dude, try not to worry 'bout it. It's Kali Yuga, time is winding down for the final curtain call in this cycle, it's all-good. Just go to a meeting and share, you'll feel better.

"You know what your problem is?"

Uhm, well, okay, tell me.

"You just do the wrong drugs, lately I mean, you've done LSD, DMT, Ibogaine, all that other stuff. You used to be in a really beautiful space, you know the light even if you've lived in darkness for a while, just re-tune yourself and heal. Hallucinogens are great for that."

Ya know something . . . I have no argument with that.

"Can you get Absinthe?"

I only had 'bout 30 minutes on the street in San Francisco, I've got some acid, but materializing Absinthe outta thin air in an ashram in the middle of fucking nowhere, is a little beyond my capabilities at the moment. Get back to me when I've hit Avatar status, then I'll just snap my fingers and...

It is your God-given right to smoke crack and shoot dope the morning before you're due to appear in drug-court.

You want my urine?

Okay, open your mouth.

And while you're at it, suck my fucking dick.

I am not a dog on a leash, I don't recall ever asking anyone else to take it upon themselves to personally arbitrate my state of existence based upon what metabolites I'm excreting in my urine. And, perhaps most important of all; my addictions -- whatever they may be -- are my own business, unless I choose to make them otherwise.

Probenecid is good food...

I am living a full and wonderful life at The Odyssey, I live worse than I ever have while strung-out, I'm sitting in fucking Miami, Miami sucks, the goddamn sun needs to be blotted out, why is this better than a year ago? You don't have a habit. Well no, now I'm just a garbage-pail for all the shit that floats through this place, or downing Absolut. But hey, my programming is alive and well -- adapt, survive, thrive, overcome and win. Except in this environment, there is nothing past survive, which means learn all about urine tests and tell people the shit they want to hear, but I mean really, WHAT THE FUCK AM I MISSING HERE? This is "treatment" for drug addiction, am I that stupid, all that people do here is talk bullshit, say, "Yeah I'm clean!" then pull out a fucking drawer-full of 20 different pills which are legally prescribed to them -- WOW that's so cool. Nothing about any of this works, everyone is in a revolving circle between here and full-hospitalization and nowhere.

Forget it, down another handful of something and numb out for a while, or wander around on the beach. At least South Beach is relatively okay - it's like a pastel-colored, friendly version of SoHo where everyone is just visiting. Distractions, get out of yourself.

So why the fuck don't I just get on a plane and leave? Because... unfortunately, wherever I go, I always seem to be there too. There is nowhere on the planet I can go where anything will make any difference. Ibogaine is about as good as it gets for opiate addiction, if that didn't work, what will. What am I waiting for... Nothing-everything-anything. A hurricane is coming, everyone is leaving, whatever. Sitting in Chaos, where this dude from Odyssey is one of the bartenders and I can drink for free.

Intersection-point... Watching a dealer walk through... WTF is he selling, that's not crack, there isn't heroin on South Beach, or it sucks - well actually everything sucks drug-wise, if you want decent shit go to OverTown - Ahhh... Ketamine. How many do you have left, 5, all of them.

South Beach is almost deserted, the Odyssey is almost empty - There is no microwave that works in this dump. This is fucking unreal. Go to a Cuban deli which is defiant enough to stay open. Here's $5 bucks, nuke this soup for me ok? "It make like powder?" That's okay, gimme. Where do I go... I hate the vibe of where I live, I love natural disasters, they always calm me down, the beach. Climb a lifeguard tower; brief reality-check, I will be tripping-out when a hurricane hits here, am I this crazy? If so, I seem to have company, since there are people surfing out there and news-vans filming the crazy people surfing, fuck it, and off we go.

"Okay, go."

Red nucleus, easy; sub-thalamus, the little squiggle that isn't always a squiggle, that black stringy shit is the substantia-nigra. Corpus callosum, Hippocampus, little almond-shaped thing is the Amygdala . . .

"Which is?"

That's where like the bitches in thigh-high leather boots, thong panties, and dog collars live.

"Right. This is the part of the brain that appreciates Videodrone, and is disappointed that Heavy Metal 2000 got pulled from the theaters."

Go figure, they have a small house. Anyway, mammillary body, little white nipple in the brain; Optic chiasm, which is wrapped next to the Pituitary . . . uhm, the pretty colors painting pictures with phosphenes live here.

"We theorize. Really, who knows, you tell me."

Seems like a good theory, theories are important. Like fer instance without theories you couldn't hold Ibogaine conferences and go up on stage and point at little charts and graphs, and write monographs and things. Saying, "it seems to interact with 90% of the brain, for the most part we dunno what the fuck it does, but these guys in the Gabon have been making tea outta this stuff for hundreds of years and it doesn't seem ta kill most of 'em, a lot of the time. So just eat the shit, and then somethin' simply magical happens," doesn't sound quite as impressive.

"Exactly."

All these people go to 12 step groups day-in, day-out. Passing the 12-step guide through my awareness at a level of being in-tune, I disagree with almost nothing in it. It's a simplified reference manual distilling eastern concepts of dismantling ego, in a manner specifically geared towards western culture, and drug addicts in particular.

Except... Except it doesn't really work too well, all of it is still geared towards remaining focused on drugs - in perpetuity, moving away from a basic evolutionary drive that exists within every human being and replacing it with rooms full of mostly annoying, stupid, and boring people, spouting drivel, until I want to kill them, myself, or just go get high.

Mirrors are becoming DaNgEroUs, I pass one and cool, lookin' good, then if I pause any longer than a second/moment/hour/day, it all blends together, falling through space, infinite constellations within constellations blowing outwards and I blink and realize, oh that's my iris. And the little dog which I haven't named, 'cuz he's not gonna end up being my little dog, mostly vibrates HAPPY/CONTENT, except when I do this, then it's like "Huh?" and some part of me has awareness that he's sitting there looking at me looking at myself, falling through the mirror, and then eventually goes "fuck it" and settles down and goes to sleep on my foot, and I look back and my pupils become black holes that sync, falling through them and infinite chains of sidereal time splinter sideways in spirals, parallel fragments of endlessly interlocking streams of possibilities within possibilities, and one of the monks walks by and I realize he's talking to me, and talking about time, and it's like, dude, could I tell ya some stuff about time, and his concern is that 6 hours have passed, but it's like all-good, listen, it's all an illusion, I'll just walk over to the clock and spin it counter-clockwise and make it cool for you. But really, he's just starting to think I'm stranger than he thought I was.

This means it's time to eat a LOT, down a couplea tablespoons of coffee, and sync down to objective-reality for a few hours. And I think that I'm gonna be onna plane soon, and its like oh fuck me, it's the 10th? But it was just the 3rd or something like that, how can I be moving through time so fast, and I've had sex on planes, I've done various substances on planes, but I don't think I've ever been AlTeReD while riding in one, and I am looking forward to this. 10 days? 10 days since I last drank the sludge. Whoa... cool. That means I might just have infinite time here after all, which is both funny and beautiful. I seem to have attained Morrison's dream to live in the subconscious, I cannot fucking come down... On the other hand, who would ever want to.

Oh fuck me, where is all this shit. It's all over like 10 formats, 20 notebooks, and 5 machines. I need to dump it all into one space. Here, recover these for me, wouldja . . .

"Dude, these are QIC tapes from 1992, a DAT from whenever, and some CD-roms, all of which are cracked - all of which are scratched... Is that brown stuff blood?

Look, who the hell knows. Just send it someplace, and tell them to super-glue it back together or sumthin' and make it go.

"Ok, right. No problem. I'll just find a CD-rom, super-gluing, un-cracking, de-scratching place, and we'll be all set."

Coolness.

"It made my head hurt. Computers are bad."

"So, I mean like I was telling you, I don't understand these people. If you can't handle your drugs, don't fucking do 'em. I mean, you're doin' good."

Well yeah, of course, but then, I like to shoot dope. But no worries, you're doin' great... I was just wonderin' tho' if you're feelin' good; why is it that you're curled in a fetal position, on the floor of the bathroom, with all the lights out?

"It's a momentary thing man. I just need another rock or two and I'll be fine. Are you sure all the blinds are all the way down, all the locks are locked and the chain's on the door? ...do you hear sirens?"

Uhm, nah, not really. Even if they were coming, it'd probably take 'em a while to get through the door, seeing how you've barricaded it with every piece of furniture that was in the room, 'cept for the beds.

"Shit, I knew I forgot something."

It's funny, were there confession here, and I carried out my red-zone impulses; Grand High Holy Poobah, I'm sorry, I just snapped 'cuz this dude would not stop beating his dog, so I killed him and ate him 'cuz I need red meat - well hey, that's okay, it was just his time to go, karma; but listen, Patrick, this eating more than once a day stuff, you've gotta work on that, you break that precept every day, next time save the meat for breakfast okay? But don't worry about it.

"That's very interesting... However, it's just all that noise, being sold to low-IQ beta types so they don't have to take responsibility for things they've done. Heroin doesn't do brain damage, you have an incredible mind, so use it already. I didn't grow up in the goddamn Waltons' either, shit happens, fucking get over it.

Honey, all of this is very simple, it's frontal-lobe stuff -- learned behaviors -- just unlearn them the next time you go under."

Oh, okay . . . obviously.

"And this time get it fucking right."

"I can't believe you're treating me like this. I'm just your pitstop to get laid. You come see me once or twice a week, you never have any time for me, and now you're ignoring me while I'm talking to you. I hate you. . . . Oh, that's so pretty. Cool! That is so fucking dope! But you're still an asshole, and I hate you, and . . . That is so awesome . . . It's sensitive and beautiful, so why do you communicate in monosyllables and act like such a prick? Have I mentioned that you're an asshole and I hate you and I never want to speak with you again -- please talk to me ok?"

Just so I have it right . . . you're gonna kick, but not tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, 'cuz you're tired of lying to yourself. You're gonna detox right after you get your next two trust-fund checks, and you'll be doing this with your boyfriend, who is currently . . . Marshman-acted?

"No! That is so completely wrong, he's Baker-acted. That other guy before him was Marshman-acted, he was just crazy. This time it's totally different. I can't even believe you're talking to me like this."

Uhm, okay, my mistake. I was confused.

"Really, who knows. I've seen people who are complete disasters, out of control, and set on self-destruct. If I were to guess; I'd say they have a day or two to live -- at best. And... they make it. I've seen people who are doing everything right, making every attempt they can, and a day later they OD.

I repeat, who knows, God loves fools and has a strange sense of humor.

If it's any consolation, statistically speaking, you have a 2% chance of succeeding."

I'm not a statistic, I'm me.

"I know that, and you're not really listening to me anyway. That's okay, I like hearing my own voice, so let me continue for a while and then go watch sports on TV."

Thank you wise one, that was super-helpful.

"Dude, you're the God of Death. You're like not here even when you are here, she's just a total cunt, and neither one of you does anything except lay around with headphones on, you guys never say a word to anybody."

And you're here why?

"My parents think I smoke too much pot and should stop doing X."

Oh... well, thanks for your input, get a real fucking problem and get back to me you little bitch-pig faggot.

I do not believe this shit. This is literally stepping through the mirror and being stuck in Alice In Wonderland. The doctor here, "You've lost a lot of weight, but look bigger somehow," no shit honey, you ain't an MD for nothin' "You want vitamin?" Oh fuck yes, yes YES... She hands me a 5mg. Of C... You are fucking kidding me, what am I supposed to do with this shit? I'm eating 50 GRAMS a day and running out.... Going to the city, same deal - I am stuck in a place where time itself is fucking me, 6 months ago, SIX FUCKING MONTHS AGO, everything I wanted would have been within half a kilometer of me, a fix is about .25 cents here, every banned substance on the fucking planet is over the counter and costs about .3 cents, and I AM IN THE SAME GODDAMN SITUATION, I need a fix, I NEED RED MEAT, I NEED VITAMINS, heroin is about as useful to me as sand, and the shit I need costs about 10 times as much as gold dust here. I would have to visit 5 towns and buy out the stock of every fucking chemist, to get what I need in one fucking, goddamn day. I am stuck in a landscape of wacky little ectomorphs scampering all over the place who eat about as much as toy poodles. I NEED ENERGY, there is energy all around me, I know these guys can slow down metabolism, be buried underground, slow shit down, I gotta try this, I have not expended any energy in many days, doing anything but moving myself around to get food, universal consciousness, come on, gimme an answer... -- You can blow me bitch, I ain't got no answers, -- THANK YOU, not quite the level of consciousness/filter I need right now and, and that little dog is crying again, and I have seen that motherfucker kick the little dog and it goes flying three feet and I WILL go down there and pound his fucking head in until it shatters beneath my hands, and then pulling back to intellect, I will disappear him and bury his fucking body in the forest, at least the cats might have something to eat..... Actually fuck the cats, there's gotta be some usable red-meat on him, I wonder what the Protein Utilization Ratio/Protein Efficiency Ratio/Amino Acid Profile is on human flesh... I guess I could conduct a study. Subjectively this would feel REALLY GOOD right now, Objectively speaking, this would prolly be a real bad idea, and I can't keep typing, I want to fucking kill some fucking thing, or lift 3 tons, and I cannot kick-up my metabolism anymore, so I gotta chill and re-tune somewhere above red.... This is NOT HAPPENING, this is personal, the universe is fucking with me, and it IS personal.

So basically what have we got... Way too many variables, way too little data, garbage in, garbage out; "we need Warp-12 in 1.3 minutes Scotty -- but 'keptin, alla got is a paper-clip, 3 legos and a toothbrush - ...yeah, and the problem is?"

And I guess that I just dunno, and I thank god that I'm not aware, and I thank god that I just don't care, 'cept oddly enough, it ain't heroin that's gonna be the death of me.

It really is such an amazingly beautiful series of interlocking systems that comprise what a human being is. It's too bad we're working backwards from the object code, everything would be a little simpler with the source and a comment or three thrown in. I would guesstimate being maybe 80% of the way there before the end of time, maybe more, who knows.

What was I striving for again...?

"Coherence."

Right, uhm . . . who am I again? What am I, where am I.