a sober title; if only the writing were that easy.

——1:00am.——

i feel empty

TIRED

my arms hurt.

just throbbing, dull agony.

but i just want to write.

please just let me fucking write.

oh but!

first i should say

please excuse the style of this piece

drugs change writers

drink changes poets

heart-break changes—

well, you get the picture.

AHA!

finally.

now i am starting to come up.

finally.

it’s fading.

finally.

i can write.

the flavor of the week

the drug of the day

the chemical of the night

is dextromethorphan!

change of pace i figure.

my favorite

my backup

my ennui

my last choice

my—

“i can’t handle being sober tonight”

it’s the only drug

whose side effects

include contradictions

and forgotten convictions.

it’s the only time i’ve really had any drug

do anything besides numb me.

which is—SCARYCRAZYAMAZING—

but in such an incredible way.

once more,

dxm is a funny drug

it doesn’t envelop you in euphoria like mdma

it doesn’t numb the ubiquitous pain that everyone feels

but no one talks about.

(like painkillers,

!!!

my first love.)

dxm?

to be specific

is a dissociative.

but that isn’t really the best way to describe it.

it’s close though

because DXM rends soul from body

it RIPS soul from body

you are no longer you

you are

just

*blank*

it’s hard to put into words

but i guess maybe it’s a bit like

you are on the outside for the first time

looking in at yourself

looking at your life

your health

your house

your job

your dog

your girlfriend

your fucking car

and realizing

how petty and unimportant your desires are

your wants

your aspirations

your greed

your lust

your envy

because DXM

is a drug that kills your ego

and i bet

now you are thinking

“FREUD”

we all know him

all your problems?

SEX. (or)

YOU WANT TO SEX YOUR MUM.

we make jokes,

but fuck

he was

and will always be a genius.

he had his moments

as we all do

the rantings and ramblings of insomniacs

the racing thoughts and ravings of madmen

even Joyce

that fuck

with Ulysses

with his stream-of-consciousness

(fuck that book.)

it all means something.

but to the point

Freud with his id, ego and superego.

found what not many of us will ever admit

realizing that here it is, finally!

that fucking monster

that parasite

that thing!

that is devouring us from the inside out.

that fucking monster

that parasite

that thing!

that IS US from the inside out.

and it’s nice.

to be able to think about these things

to be able to write these things

to be able to read these things

to be able to do drugs

to be able to tell drugs to fuck off

to drink yourself yellow

to smoke yourself black

to be saved by religion

to be devoured by religion

to be able to exist.

maybe that’s the important thing?

i don’t even know

if my pieces have important things

to say anymore.

well.

——6:00am.——

i’m coming down now.

it’s not a bad feeling.

DXM, thankfully, has an afterglow.

but hangovers aren’t just diarrhea and puke.

they can be much worse.

if you don’t keep a hold of yourself

if you don’t have a firm grip on your soul

your hangover will be in a padded white room

rather than a hard, porcelain one.

i’m telling you

when you reach that fork in the yellow wood

don’t take this fucking path

fuck whether or not it’s been traveled on.

i feel like bit by bit

i’m stripping away

the paint and and lacquer

the flowery wallpaper and lonely drywall

that covers what’s inside me

what is there

even i

don’t know.

thank god at least

tonight i won’t have to mug the sandman

and thank god at least

i’m done tearing wallpaper down for the day.

i’m afraid

that it’s ugly under there.

but mostly i’m terrified

that it’s...

[omitted].