This March Hare Is Nothing But A Crackrabbit.
That's it! I have had it with the pipe. I keep worrying that I will fall asleep and I have an appointment to keep at the local detention centre to see a friend who's in "lock-up." The pipe has no player but itself. People like me become orchestral maneuvers with a spark. Heh. Nope, but this, ... this is it. Through. Only crack to burn and only crank will do. Wait, scratch that. The crack is working slowly into my tongue and gums. Numbing them. Awakening my senses and lulling my taste buds to sleep. Crack frightens me. Ain't no drug to reverse the adverse effects of cocaine. I shouldn't start to get all Little Miss Panic Attack over this, but the principle! The knowledge that speed works wonders for 12 glorious hours and this, ... it dies after 2 or 3. But the local retailers were out of my usual so the highly unusual suspect catburgled me out of $60.00 and set itself up just in case that older, weaker, thinning stream of a regular customer I've become accustomed to happens to drop me from the sky. Crack is like an atomic mushroom cloud the size of an arterial air bubble. All it does is seek and destroy and no one ever hears the detonator ticking. Crack mothers must have insane-o babies! Good gawd, the horror and sickening blood lust this weak yet effective high could cause is devastating in hypothesis as much as it is when it is. My stomach swirls in twisty chewed-up knots and I wonder if it's gonna cause diarrhea or just sympathy gas. Good thing I have mega-benzodiazapines and opiates to level me out. Always nice to know you have taken enough of a script to O.D., and let the crack alone until it's ready for you. Crack is greasy. Splatters oil and fizzles and pops like breakfast bacon in an iron skillet. Cakes the pipe walls with a yellowish gooey residue that you start to smoke only when the original crack rock has turned to a hard, baked and cajun cooked black ash.
Speed is soooo much more sophisticated. The best stuff arrives like sparking diamond shards. Crystalline and pure, it melts into a clear water-like liquid and lulls back and forth in the pipe head until it rerocks once more into an amber and zirconia pool of hardened wet dreams pulling at your breakneck beating heart. Out of the chest, back into the ribcage it throtles and all the while you've got yourself looking silly with yet another home fix-it project you may start 1001 times but never finish out of sheer love of the speed shards. *Le Sigh* So little to make my whirlwind mentality upstart and ooze into thrashing tropical storms that dance and whip and whistle at the girls passing by.
But in my overly attentive afterthought, all drugs have personality. That is how you know who YOU are by knowing who is the narcotic nasty you allow to pass through your fancy.Some of them are deeply set in rich and complex social layers, others are simple-minded and bothersome because they don't speak much and are rarely spoken through. My favorite substances are the ones who dress for your occasions. Seldom is a fancy dressed drug too complex or too monotonous. The more 'pret-a-porter' a narcotic is the chance it is likely to lead to a romance, an intimate evening on the dance floor, swirling and gyrating, even the stars come out reflecting a candy-coated moon that lights every flashy cuff link and softens their shiny shells soothing you as would a gracious friend or knowing lover.
And do the fancy ones ever make the best lovers! They even make males multi-orgasmic with their heightened sense of garage door laboratory sensibility. Fancy dress are the only kind I use on a permanent basis. Somehow, I have to rope and restrain this crackpipe killer whale. With a harpoon as big as my clenched fist and a vessel no smaller than a matte brass canopy bed. Oh dear, oh dear me! I should have stopped before it started. Put my foot down and my fondness for cardiological crank calls on choke hold, except, ... it seemed and still seems harmless enough. I do a smidge, a kernel and viola! Alert and poised for pet projects.
But it's a killer. My mother taught me from very, very young which poisons kill rats and which of them just retard rodents into retreating.
This is what is called a "character break", where I stop alliterating and tipping my hat at the English vocabulary and sit right with the world. Legs crossed and head resting upon one palm whilst the freehand continues. I think crack might be an all time low on my medical morality meter. Like a dull razor blade around the bikini line.
Perhaps I should save it until death isn't an issue with me (which it hasn't been with me. Not wanting to die yet not expecting to live longer than is needed from me by nature and those I nurture). No idea what to think, Such a stigma attached, like a child's "kick me" sign dangled off the back of an unsuspecting Mathematics substitute. Albeit for me to guffaw, it is a drug, an upper. A similarly smokable understudy. *antsy and jittery about* Is this my life? Crack to keep awake or the usual narcotic induced coma I use to feel almost all of my empathic emotions.
It's an emotionless need for energetic or soothing calming being. Pick an outfit that says "Wow!" Does this shirt match my methamphedamine driven mood swing? I must do this blunt and honestly blinding thought ritual about 10 to 20 times in a day. Everyday, I become an emotional fashion victim. At least I know and trust my choices. Not even my own mother can get through a day without a Tourret's bout and a good ol' fashioned breakdown and out. I think my whole family has always been jealous of my ability to handle the very addictive alcoholic ancestry THEY created over 6 generations ago. All of them, sick, mad, and languid in a pool of their own urine of life. Lucky me, I started as a pup and turned into a well-trained biological bitch with the sheer audacity to be debating TO CRACK OR NOT TO CRACK.
Yup. All that drama and I have to decide again in about 2 hours.
Does this look more like happy or should I go for grinning idiot ...?
Fancy dress, then you're life's a monster's ball. Thank the gods; I could be bored Mrs. American where love comes from children or else they take you away to the pokey.
Tee Hee to Housewives!
*points and giggles with malice in her fingers*
I'm just like you are, like everybody's anyone!
In the out-of-the-abstract aren't we all sense.