by Sharon Feldman
I’ve got nine days sobriety burning a hole in my pocket. Fucking Amish Mormon Weight Watchers shit. But soon will come the Second Coming and it will be Apocalypse and hellfire and demons and cracks in the Earth again. You know, fun. Well I mean it’s really not the second coming. I lost count a few hundred times ago. And it’s not really fun, at least not in the playing Frisbee with your best pals sort of way. Sometimes it just feels better to sprint and rest than to jog endlessly.
I’m not sure whether the drug is the sprint or the rest. Neither feels entirely good but neither feels entirely bad either. Jogging doesn’t feel that bad, but it always feels bad. Sometimes…you know? Sometimes you just want to float. You want to throw the monkey from your back and slam him into the wall and scream in his fucking face. He’ll bite you and he’ll kick you when he comes back, but for a period you are free, and some freedom is better than none.
Oh, and did I mention fuck all you people? Sorry. I didn’t really mean that. I’m a mean sober. And I’ve been on a bender for like nine days now as a I said. Yes, I’m from that state of mind (sobriety), but I don’t consider myself a local. The drug is my home mind. I, in the sense of the set of chemicals that I consider myself, am the drug plus my body and whatever other shit we don’t yet know about.