Diluted
05-18-2007, 01:32 AM
Bold face lies with power ties. Opiates turned me into the king of recovery, the king of lies.
Are you a member of the cancer club? The smokers lounge?
I assume most are. Or have been. Yet - this Trump Card is my most pleasurable experience at work. The seed of all resentment, mutiny, and praise come from the group of the tar stained nicotine addicts. The ones with the hidden tattoos, boyfriends in jail - and management who hires from half-way houses to get tax breaks. This is where the information is found. This is where it is processed.
On a bench, in the sun, outside of a remotely viewed and opened county jail type employee entrance to Big Retail. This is the smoker spot for Dillards. Poor mans Sax Fifth Avenue.
This is where I wear my Bells Outlet shirt and swager with the confidence of a man who -
Has nine months of sobriety. Sounds good, doesn't it? Nine months of sobriety. A human life is created in nine months. Sometimes after nine minutes of pleasure. Often, the average cigarette is nine minutes long.
Coincidence? I assume so while chowing down on Mcdonald's cheese burgers, coming from the land of no dollar menus, and no loitering signs. This is your county seat's Mall. This is where the big shots play. So your town isn't filled with pick up trucks and outlaws. Yet, we all have a Fifth Street East. This is Middle America, and it's my playground.
In those nine minutes I often rest my feet, yet it's where I flirt. It's where I get phone numbers. It's where I judge women by the way they could rear my child, not by the sales per hour they calculate from the register.
This is where I find their drug addictions, social status, and intelligence. This is where I am king. I am the king of the smokers lounge. Often, with the people who clean the toilets. Work the docks. I am one of you. Yet, here I am - wearing a tie - hoping they don't return that pair of Ecco's. They cost $220. That's adding to my S.P.H. That's adding to my paycheque. That's adding to my habit.
My habit of what? An addiction to suboxone that gains me no pleasure at all? Please. Suboxone is a life saver yet at the same time robs you of any respect. I've watched myself turn my current significant other into an opiate addict. Seeking. Calling. Crying. Smoking.
Do I smoke to cover for a lack of self confidence? Do I munch on suboxone like tic-tacks to relieve withdrawal symptoms? Which, of course, range from a mild headache to goosebumps. It seems as if we forget it's normal to get headaches and to experience chills. We have become:
xxx - xx - xxxx
If I die and go to hell real soon,
it will appear to me as this room.
And for eternity I'd lay in bed
in my boxers, half stoned,
with the pillow under my head.
I'd be chatting on the interweb;
maggots pray upon the living dead.
I had no interest in the things she said.
On the phone every day,
I'll permanently hit the hay.
I called her on the phone and she touched herself.
She touched herself. She touched herself.
I called her on the phone and she touched herself.
I laughed myself to sleep.
Are you a member of the cancer club? The smokers lounge?
I assume most are. Or have been. Yet - this Trump Card is my most pleasurable experience at work. The seed of all resentment, mutiny, and praise come from the group of the tar stained nicotine addicts. The ones with the hidden tattoos, boyfriends in jail - and management who hires from half-way houses to get tax breaks. This is where the information is found. This is where it is processed.
On a bench, in the sun, outside of a remotely viewed and opened county jail type employee entrance to Big Retail. This is the smoker spot for Dillards. Poor mans Sax Fifth Avenue.
This is where I wear my Bells Outlet shirt and swager with the confidence of a man who -
Has nine months of sobriety. Sounds good, doesn't it? Nine months of sobriety. A human life is created in nine months. Sometimes after nine minutes of pleasure. Often, the average cigarette is nine minutes long.
Coincidence? I assume so while chowing down on Mcdonald's cheese burgers, coming from the land of no dollar menus, and no loitering signs. This is your county seat's Mall. This is where the big shots play. So your town isn't filled with pick up trucks and outlaws. Yet, we all have a Fifth Street East. This is Middle America, and it's my playground.
In those nine minutes I often rest my feet, yet it's where I flirt. It's where I get phone numbers. It's where I judge women by the way they could rear my child, not by the sales per hour they calculate from the register.
This is where I find their drug addictions, social status, and intelligence. This is where I am king. I am the king of the smokers lounge. Often, with the people who clean the toilets. Work the docks. I am one of you. Yet, here I am - wearing a tie - hoping they don't return that pair of Ecco's. They cost $220. That's adding to my S.P.H. That's adding to my paycheque. That's adding to my habit.
My habit of what? An addiction to suboxone that gains me no pleasure at all? Please. Suboxone is a life saver yet at the same time robs you of any respect. I've watched myself turn my current significant other into an opiate addict. Seeking. Calling. Crying. Smoking.
Do I smoke to cover for a lack of self confidence? Do I munch on suboxone like tic-tacks to relieve withdrawal symptoms? Which, of course, range from a mild headache to goosebumps. It seems as if we forget it's normal to get headaches and to experience chills. We have become:
xxx - xx - xxxx
If I die and go to hell real soon,
it will appear to me as this room.
And for eternity I'd lay in bed
in my boxers, half stoned,
with the pillow under my head.
I'd be chatting on the interweb;
maggots pray upon the living dead.
I had no interest in the things she said.
On the phone every day,
I'll permanently hit the hay.
I called her on the phone and she touched herself.
She touched herself. She touched herself.
I called her on the phone and she touched herself.
I laughed myself to sleep.