Ahhhhh, to be an addict. To know that when the air hits you just right it still feels wrong. Whether knee dip in this knowing or swimming in denial there is nary a trace of websters own definition of solace to be found amongst the ruins. Why? Because you can't even think straight. You don't feel proper and often times it becomes even hard to breathe one-two one-two without a little of that stuff. What stuff, man? That stuff. The right stuff. Maybe it's the wrong stuff. Kind of hard to adjust the settings of another.
You, sir (or madam)..... are an addict. You don't need eight hours of shut eye in order to be rested enough to finger an open window and breathe in the stink from outside to complete your puzzled sentiment. You don't require batteries for operational purposes or winding up in efforts to spark the clicker and/or ticker and you won't even be needing the presence of companionship to tweak the old motivational supplement. You just got to have your.... well, whatever it is that made you this way because its your way and baby, we love your way (or not) and all you wanna do is have some fun and live with the lights on and see clearly now because the rain is in somebody elses yard, this all due to you.... why? Because you're not just an addict anymore. You're an asshole.
From your side of the fence the world turns and life goes on ob-la-dee-ob-la-da and it's pretty fucking entertaining when you break wind while wearing your happy pants. Never once sparing a dime for the brother who finds themselves caught in the afterglow of that soul sediment that you breeze downwind and all over the daisies trying to grow in another persons garden. Nope, you're an asshole and you don't care. Why should you? Give you lickety spit and kisses on the dingelberries inside of your dungarees because you is one funny motherfucker according to popular opinion via one way of your own.
Holding out your arm. Mouth open wide. Eyes closed.... or they can remain open.... won't matter. Nothing matters as long as you get your fix because then and only then you will be getting your kicks. Maybe on route sixty six. Maybe even sixty nine if you're really lucky. But here is a thought that never seemed to cross your mind because it didn't feel up to a really good chicken impersonation..... you are on a road to nowhere. It doesn't matter that you forgot to bring your map. Nowhere goes nowhere no matter how hard you turn left-right-left-right-left. You're only going to breakdown and when you do.... well, then you'll really be fucked because your supplier can't find you.
You'll go into withdrawal and once the sweat settles and your stomach no longer suffers from daredevil irritation syndrome you might feel a twinge or three of discomfort. If you so choose it could be time to clean up that mess you seemed damn well convinced was a life. But what is a life of ones own worth if all around them grows sour mash? Nobody likes an addict unless they themselves are in fact.... an addict. In which case.... YAY. WOW. Group hug.
Everybody does actually like an asshole as long as they're on a screen or in print. Rotten meat for the entertainment beast. But up close? Eh, not so much. Assholes tend to smell funny but not in that ha-ha kind of way. Besides, those outbreak masks have never seemed to come back in style. You could care less about fashion though when you're a hug collector gathering up hugs and hugs and more hugs from your equally smelly peers. The world is filled with addicts and assholes and we all have to watch our step or otherwise it's brown on the shoes and noses curled.
Life is short for those with really short attention spans. These being the 'sholes and 'dicts of the world who are just too damn one dimensional for their own good and certainly for the good of others. For the rest of us the time we are forced into enduring these blips and bloopers society serves up kind of resembles a really long elevator ride with someone who just can't seem to get used to washing and flossing on a regular basis. YAY. WOW. Group hug and three cheers for having three dimensions. A mind that works wonders all on its own. A body that doesn't smell like a putrid pile and a soul that is funkier than Al Green's sweatbox.
*****Original post date 6/18/2011*****
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