Fix

“So here’s another story for the fire kids, Tell truth to me the liar bids”

One day I was at my lowest. My shit limit is too far fucked and I can’t get more far fucked. So I thought. This is the story of how I sold my soul. Honest and truly. I was sick. Bad sick. I don’t know if any of yall know what dope withdrawls feel like after hitting a needle with the religious devotion of a 7 year saint. But that was me. All washed and strung out. Used up all my dirty little filter cottons that had collected in my gear box that was chaos. Open syringes, multitudes of empty discarded bags( former dreams) my cooker and a bunch of other junkie shit were contained within. I squeezed the already squeezed and squeezed again cottons in a futile vain attempt to get some semblance of something at least appearing like a shot. I mashed the dirty wet cottons in my dirty unwashed fingers and squeezed them dry, down into the cooker. A yellowish liquid with black dirt like pepper floating in it was what was left in the cooking spoon wrapped in electrical tape. I put my Bic to it to purify it… Haha. After a slow quick boil I throw another dirty used cotton into the bowl, and eagerly draw up, come what may. A barely diluted yellow sucks up into the rig. I’m broke and sick, and the hopelessness of this shot is more for me mentally than anything else. It takes at least ten minutes to spike a vein in the parking lot. All the more frustrating realizing that this is bullshit I’m about to shoot. Piss would be more effective. But I zone into meticulous, methodical, I search the old favs… Tapped out today as per usual, so then I get creative, move to the fingers and the palms. And finally. Pffffffffff, that red liquid ribbon gushes into the syringe. Pay dirt. I’m in. I push down holding my flattened Palm steady. It’s messy and I’m sure I miss a cc or 2, evidenced by the bubling of my skin and sharp pain, but I work the rig expertly so as to get most of the yellow piss water from used up cottons and dirty fingers into my bloodstream. A success for the most part. I untie the bandana from my forearm, and lay back in my car and feel nothing. No relief, no reduction in symptoms. And no fuckin high to speak of…
Mentally it calms me 1/100th of a bit I guess, which is why I took all the fucking time doing it. And with that I’m able to somewhat calm down and attempt to quarterback the day. What do I need to do, how do I need to do it. I’ll do Anything, in anyway, and as soon as humanly possible. 

To those of you without a serious needle habit with heroin or speedballs. Withdrawing feels like drowning. Fuck all this “flu symptom” nonsense. Hell if you had a flu I’m sure you could push through. But imagine your body has gotten so used to something being in it… Like air… And then when it’s deprived of it, it panics, it struggles, it will do anything to take one more gulp of fresh air. Get it now? Try holding your breath. That’s what a dope fiend feels. Only it doesn’t stop there. It lasts for days and days and days and gets worse before it gets better. Understand? That’s why all these junkies are willing to sell all they own, live in squalor, give up everything and everyone they care about. To lose control completely. Hold your breath now. How long could you make it before you’d be selling your shit and begging for just one more breath. On and on and on…
I’ve drowned for days. Died and come out the other side still dead. But living. 
Back to it tho I’m in the car and their are a few things that I still own that define me, that were passed down to me, that I have held on to despite everything.

But, the sickness is on me like a wet blanket. The yellow shot. Shit. I have few options other than to pull a long winded con or pan handle, none of which I have the fortitude to undertake. I take the easiest route. The most devastating. The most dehumanizing. The most damning…

For years and years I’d sold all the records I had at one time adored above all else. I had them all Hendrix, kraftwerk, Marley, dylan, the doors, specials, Kate bush…trust me I could go on and on. They were what defined me at one time.

But now a few odds and ends were all that were left over, stuff no one really wanted to buy at the used record shops and a few things I would never be willing to sell.
Beg, scream and shout! A collection of 60s soul box set was among these rare treasures. I showed up at the nostalgia shop with some odds and ends, vhs and the like, but he was in a bad mood this day and didn’t want to pay me for my squalor junk leftovers. But time was getting late, my nose was running, and that drowning sensation just got stronger and stronger. I had to do what I had to do. Which was whatever it takes to get a fix. So I went back to my car and brought back the Soul box set… I’ll give you  10 bucks he says, smiling.

And I took it. No other options. 10 dollars for my Soul, my funk, my long cherished box set of essential 60s grooves records. Maybe to some this might seem ridiculous. But then you probably don’t know, the pain of selling a part of yourself for a fix. A part you don’t want to give, but you have to. 

I took the money and scored a dime to get right, from the shadier dope house in town. And it wasn’t worth it. I missed half of it and the other half was garbage….

So I started turning the wheels again. Sans soul, how will I get my next fix?

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