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Friday, July 23, 2004
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TASTES LIKE CHICKEN....
I'm sure I don't have to tell you what it's like after you've been up for three of four days smoking Angel Dust. Of course, I don't. We've all been there, lost in those desperate hours, alone, but never totally alone, with only the voices to comfort you.
There's one practise that your run of the mill drug fiend has never mastered. That would be the obtaining of groceries. Go into any freak's refrigerator, the desolation is almost as harrowing as my bed was on prom night. Not only is there nothing there, there's no indication that anything has been for some time.
Thankfully, the voices are there to guide you. They remind you to perform certain functions that you wouldn't, so clouded over are you in a drug induced psychosis. You'd be surprised how often the PCP-addled forget to do such basic things as feed themselves.
But the voices remind them. The voices are always there, thinking only of your well-being.
And does anyone ever thank the voices? No, no one ever does.
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