Guilty (Pleasures)

Some nights, I fall and hard. My hands are heavy and numb from the constant beer bottles shuffling out of my hands. It’s an easy addiction made only easier by having a rough or less than stellar work day. Does that mean I’m proud of the amount of liquid courage cascading down my throat? Absolutely not. Drinking is a bitch. Unfortunately, it brings out the worst in me when I tread passed calm and relaxed and into unadulterated chaos. I’m a mess, but only some days.

I’ve asked a close friend if doing these activities somehow makes me a bad person. Does the infrequent nights where I willing indulge in my guilty pleasures define me? She says no. I’ve found myself asking her for advice on more than one occasion, since she’s a nurse by night and someone I’ve known for more than half my life. My core group of friends have one skewed and often colored perception on the topic of drinking and other illicit activities. I reasonably couldn’t expect the truth from them. Say it ain’t so.

Other days, I feel completely untouchable. I’ll run my usual 5K and feel the rush of endorphins flooding my inner cranium. It stopped being hard since last year and now is the go to method for stress relief. Maybe the sales for the month are at a new all time high and my bonus is larger than ever. Good news tends to trickle in — only making it more scarce and of a lower threshold.

I’m no saint, but I have honesty going for me. What do I have to lose? Almost every week I ask myself: What the fuck am I doing?



Creeping Up

You fear less about wanting to do something when you remind yourself of your morality. A drink here. A line here. A pill or two there. It’s easy to swallow for the bliss all the vices the world brings. It’s a battle against yourself, your mind, and the feelings of temptation.

Life’s not all pleasure seeking. Some days you fall. The false invincibility substances and sweet lady courage brings is met with danger. You tend to get lucky. Like most addictions, it’s fun in the beginning. Slowly, the light begins to fade. You’re met at the abyss. Look into the mirror and you may see someone unfamiliar. It’s interesting how you can lose control of your own body.

The mercy of the world is right in front of you. Somehow, telling yourself no is one of the hardest decisions there is to make.

Fight me.


Death is Lurking

When my friend and I meet up, I see him do many things that would raise an eyebrow. Seems like drugs are always on the agenda. A cigarette here, a line here, and a beer or three there. I’m amazed he can do this every week actually. He’s been complaining about being broke all week and it finally hit me where it all goes.

I personally don’t consider any of his activities fun or something I would like to partake in. I call this self-harm masked over with the warm high illegal narcotics brings. It’s false hope for those who have a less than optimistic view of the world.

I may just sit and watch it consume him. There’s only so much I can do after the bazillionth talk I’ve had with him. Death is lurking, but he knows it too.


Until You Self-Destruct 1/19/2019

The level of self-destructive behavior I see in people alarms me. I think at one point, we have all tried to drown out our sorrows with alcohol — which I consider to be fairly mild. However, hard drugs is what I have a problem with. Considering most bad moments in life are just temporary, subjecting yourself to several months or years of drug abuse seems like a bad deal — one of the worst there is.

Last night, I went to the club with the guys. Normally, I would say no, but after some insistence, I said fuck it — why not. It was a long week. I would in all honesty admit that going clubbing and going to shows was more fun back in college — not so much now. Back then, I always went with a large group of friends, predominantly female. Shit was fun getting drunk and dancing the night away in some alcohol-fueled bender. Of course it is and would be. Study hard, but party twice as hard. I have too many fond memories of this. Even after finishing college, I did it weekly for other year and a half before I came to my senses and gave it up. Real-world hit and I was left wondering how old is too old for this shit.

I have nothing against clubbing, the party scene, or EDM. It’s an acquired taste and lifestyle. My beef is when it’s used as an excuse to do lines of coke and pop molly. I’ll be real. My friends do this shit a lot and all the fucking time. Molly or ecstasy is the drug of choice for all millennials who like to have a good time. I can’t name a single person I know from college or now who hasn’t at least tried that shit at least once. Who wouldn’t. Pop one and you feel amazing. It’s attractive.

I suppose I always knew my best friend participated in these activities every week without telling us. His behaviors are erratic, mood swings on a dime, and he looks like shit most weekends. He’s a maniac depressive masked over with drinking, drugs, and partying. But he’s a big boy and I’m not here to save him from the path he’s gone way far too down. My job isn’t here to save anyone.

I used to believe that if you had caring friends who were looking out for you, you would almost be almost immune to self-harm. How naive. Only now do I realize even if your friends tell you you’re fucking up, it’s really up to you to decide if you want to listen. Not everyone does and most people are terrible listeners. What separates me from everyone else is I listen and follow advice to a T. I consider myself fortunate for that reason.

I’m almost for a lost of words to describe how it could get this bad for my best friend. Several likes of coke, a few pills of molly, and somehow this is what he considers a fun night. You do you, but next time, I’ll pass. I want nothing to do with that shit.

Later world.



We Need to Talk

For many years now, I’ve witnessed the slow decline of my best friend. He’s gone from being a bit lost to full fledge substance abuse. Think molly, coke, shrooms, etc. He might be smoking weed, but if it amounts to several thousand spent every year, it’s not recreationally anymore. He’s a junkie.

From what very little I can piece together, he isn’t just smoking weed. Other substances are involved and it’s quite apparent. I fucking hate this about him. We should all be a little mad that he mixes substances whenever he has the safety of us nearby, but it’s difficult to stop him. There’s only so much one can say or urge if the message never enters his brain. This shit is a colossal waste of money and he shouldn’t be broke because of it.

Just a couple months prior, we went to see Gorillaz. Everything was fine until he let slip he’d taken coke, molly, and shrooms all at once. He walked all fucked up, moped around, and suddenly became bright red. Shit was fucking terrifying. He rambled on about all the cool and interesting things his mind was seeing, unaware we had a worried expressions in all our faces. I’ll never understand this about him. Why this? How can you bring to yourself to do so much and have us responsible for your well-being? It’s reckless and irresponsible. It’s pushing your luck and I’d wish he would just cut that shit out.

A few years prior, he crashed his car into the divider on the 60 freeway. His events of what happened differ from what his cousin told me, but no surprise — drugs were involved. He’d taken too many Xanax, lost consciousness, and violently totalled his car. It was terrifying to hear the news the morning after, yet upsetting he wouldn’t tell the full truth. It was a wake up call for him, but only temporarily at best.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get through to him, but that won’t stop me from trying. I know him better than anyone else and he’s just a shell of person now. He smokes cigarettes, drinks and likely hasn’t gotten any exercise since P.E sophomore year of high school. I’d really like him to just give a shit and wake up, but it’s not that easy.

The few times I’ve seen him care involved this girl he was hooking up with. It did him some good. She hated the smell of cigarette smoke so he quit — just like that. I’ve might have not seen him every week like I normally do and bailed on our plans like clockwork, but I knew he was happy. Things tragically took a turn for the worst when he found out he wasn’t the only guy she was sleeping with. I told him it couldn’t be, but again, he never does listen. A few weeks of hard drinking and a quick return to smoking Camels later, he was back to his old habits.

Yesterday, in our usual group text, he told me he has no expectations. I replied that’s impossible since everyone expects to wake up in the morning. He said he doesn’t give a shit. That’s a problem and by far the biggest red flag I’ve seen in the over 12 years I’ve known him.

Not everyone has someone looking out for them. I know he needs help and I’m willing to sit him down and get to the bottom of his inner demons. I don’t care how pessimistic he is or how very little he gives a shit. He’s my friend and friends don’t let them fall off the rails. We might argue if we’re to have the talk, but that doesn’t deter me least bit. He needs help and I’d drop everything I’m doing to make sure he gets it.

Later world.