I had this plan on how I was gonna get off this fentanyl addiction, because I’m not even gonna lie, it’s ugly as fuck and I was a little scared about doing it. I stockpiled like 60 subs and the plan was to just take some xanax, sleeping through the first day or two and then just start popping subs. And that’s why I have never been a big fan of plans, because they never work out for me, something always gets fucked. So I ran out of dope, dragged it as far as I could and then popped some xanax, problem was I was already sick and so the xanax didn’t knock me out. Instead I ate 5 bars and already being sick just pushed through, faded as fuck for the first 36 hours, walking about denver, high as fuck on xanax. I went to my mom’s and did some weird shit like eating the whole 1/8 of weed I’d just bought and hiding all my shit throughout my mom’s place. Then the sickness really kicked in and I bounced around my mom’s house for the next 48 hours puking all over and making my mom rub my imaginary back pain away every chance I got. My mom’s a fucking gangster. She is absolutely my ride or die. When I am on drugs, although I am definitely aware that she does not approve, she doesn’t bust my balls for it, she doesn’t talk shit. She has never once made me feel bad for being me, she has never made me feel anything but proud of being myself. So the plan was to just basically replace one deadly addiction for a more socially acceptable, less deadly addiction. But subs taste gross as fuck and so instead of letting them sit under my tongue and letting them do their job I ate them like a pill, washing them down immediately with a drink of soda. I was wondering why that shit wasn’t working, I figured maybe I was to far gone but I just wasn’t taking them right. Anyways, I rode out the storm like the boss that I am simply with the thought that I wasn’t going to reintroduce myself to my daughter as a fuçking junkie. Fuck that. She’s never known me as a junkie and to be completely honest the only reason I’ve been getting wasted for the last 14 years was because I didn’t have her in my life and so I was doing everything possible to avoid any kind of feelings or emotions that went along with her absence from my life. It wasn’t easy, I mean it definitely sucked, but it really wasn’t all that bad, isn’t all that bad. There are things out there that are far more worthwhile then just getting high. In fact getting high hasn’t done it for me in a long ass time, I just did it because it’s what I’ve always was a knee-jerk reaction. I’ve collected addictions like little kids collect baseball cards, and like I couldn’t be bothered when I lost all the baseball cards I collected as a kid, I won’t be bothered by losing these either. Easy come easy go. I’m a bad motherfucker, we are all some bad motherfuckers. Beings of light, sound, and vibration we are made from fucking stardust. There is absolutely nothing that I am not capable of doing, not one fucking thing. Anything that I’ve ever wanted, I was able to get fairly easy. I just had to wrap my mind around it. How the fuck am I gonna let an inanimate object drive my ship? Something man-made, without a will or a mindset? How the fuck am I gonna be able to sing this whole made from stardust tune if I let some drug control me? In my entire life I have always done drugs but I never once let them do me. Drugs never made me someone that I was not, drugs don’t do that. Drugs give you the courage to be the person you’re afraid to show people, or maybe they numb you to doing things that when sober you find yourself tripping over, but they are incapable of changing the person you are, you are doing that all on your own. This basically boiled down to boredom and a serious lack of hope and dreams for a future that at one point seemed like an eternity away. On one level it feels like I just lost Brooklyn yesterday, it’s that raw. But on another level it seems like it’s been eons. When I stop and look back, it feels like I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes in the last 14 years, and I have. I managed to go to prison 3 times. Died a couple times, lived once maybe twice. I had and lost another daughter. I’ve lost everything, built it all back up and lost it all over again. I’ve grown and changed in a thousand didn’t ways yet after 43 years here I sit, basically the exact same person you met whenever, just more defined, more polished. More damaged. But beautiful none the less. And the thing about true beauty is that shit don’t wash away, it don’t run down your face with all the tears from the pain and suffering. It’s my opinion that the tears just wash away the grit and grime enhancing that beauty all the more.

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