The story of an addict

Her hands are an oasis. They warm the blood even as they beat it down.

Even as they crack the skulls on my rimshots, I am losing the memory of this moment. I am too cracked in this skull to keep this rhythm alive. I am too dead in the brain to remember how to stay sane.

The story is of an addict is an evil one. A story where men will shoot other men to obtain the special hit of the sweet stuff.

The story of an addict is one where the shakes are common, where the fuck you becomes as easy to spark as the kiss good night. The story of an addict is where everything you do falls into that moment, into that sweet escaping moment.

This time, you think. This time I can get back what I had the first time I tried it.

Every moment becomes playing catchup, trying to reach farther and farther for the first kiss of booze, for the first drag of the joint. The joint becomes your favorite friend, and the only bliss you will ever experience will ride, cherished, on that first kiss. Say hello to daddy. The first hit is the best. Though everyone says you have to hold it in, I almost prefer the cough, the dry racking gasp as the smoke leaves your lungs too quickly. The smooth curl of your tongue around that first, bitter shot of Canadian whiskey. The satisfying realization that yes, it is exactly like the stories. It really does taste like fire.

The satisfying skk, click sound as you successfully open your first bottle of Dos Equis. The tingle in your fingertips as you squeeze the lime into the bottle. The first sip of the crisp, cold liquid, falling directly into your belly. It’s better than sex. That is, better than what I imagine sex to be.

This is not the story of an addict.

This is the story of an almost.

~ by ambersbrainisinsane on August 27, 2008.