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Things aren't going well, that's all I hold a definitive position on. I hope it doesn't last. It's so complicated to live through it. It might be easier if I put some food in my mouth and go through the boring process of chewing, swallowing, digesting and finally, shitting. I keep getting pissed every times my friend puts on his lame mainstream kind of songs, preaching about burning a red light and other dangerous behavior. We all hope these songs won't be considered as mainstream for too long. Oh! Sleeping might help too. But just as eating, it doesn't feel so interesting as a thing to do. It seems the high effects are long gone, what's left being hopeless thoughts for me to muse over.

To accentuate my melancholy, I thought back of the days where I did not practice the use of illicit substances. I was born right in the middle of the biggest acid wave our history has ever known. Somehow, I ended going friendly with the remnants of it once I was a teenager, those whose brains were mostly gone. I was inexplicably unable to go beyond that in my memories. Even getting that far was an exploit for me to celebrate.

My dear friend, this old man who must have a maximum of four brain cells left, walked into my room without knocking. It was killing me, the fact he never knocked at the door like a gentleman. Though I should excuse him for that, for he mustn't remember the basic and primal rules most of the citizens go by.

Slowly, carefully, he moves toward my desk and picks up my pack of Rizlas'. I do not bother asking him why he's taking them without my permission, nor what he plans to do with them. I know the answers to both questions, I know it's pointless to get into an argument with him at this time of the day, where I just feel empty and perhaps rightfully mediocre.

I shall explain why. Some years ago, my wife unexpectedly aimed her revolver at me and shot me. The ironic thing is that I should have been the one with a gun and fire at her, because I found her having an affair with another man. At least, the whole scene was a memory I was sure I could hang on as much as I'd like to and never forget. Right when I was to walk in our bedroom, she got my shoulder. I staggered back and lifted my eyes to see her in our bed with a stranger. I almost shrugged and walked away. It hurt a lot though and I got better help from my old friend than from the hospital. The bullet is still in my shoulder. Every times I move my arm, I can feel it, inside, pulling at me. Truth is all junkies are just as afraid of the hospital as a gangster. Well, I shoot up, so it's obvious on my arms that I am using.

My hand reaches for my stash of pills under the lamp on my bedside table. I swallow down all of them, taking a gulp of scotch every times I pop another one. When I am done, my belly feels worst though I feel light headed. I grin to myself and open my bedroom window. Fresh air swirls in my room along with the distant seagulls' conversations. The night feels good, the ocean wind does too. I rest my head down on my pillow and shut my eyes with the expectation of never waking up again... for this night?