Friday, November 9, 2012

2nd Intermission (All the cool kids read intermissions!)

This is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to a friend, but I think it is important for everybody interested in this story to read...

This book (or story, or whatever the hell it is) is truly a laborious effort for me.  I haven't used Meth in a pretty long stretch now.  Writing about it in the way that I have been is a constant triggering mechanism.  The first parts of the book were written while I was completely under its control, and in order to maintain a narrative thread, I have been allowing myself to return (mentally at least) to my old thought processes (without actually using drugs) in order to trigger memories and profound actualizations about not only myself during that time, but also about the people who I had considered to be my closest and dearest friends, including our main character (Bull in our story).  Every time I write about something stupid I did, or some situation I allowed to get out of hand because dope had skewed my brain into a belief that I was indestructible and untouchable, I have to allow myself a bit of time to decompress.  Hence the length of time between chapters.

Now I've been approached somebody who wants to publish it, who hopefully wants to see the book in print, and who will hopefully whore it out to all prospective media interested in exhibiting this lifestyle to the general public.  I have never been more excited, or frightened.  Like I said... I like to take some time to decompress and think about where I am, as opposed to where I was.  I like to think that the book I am writing will not only be an explanation of the lifestyle, but a deterrent to people who have never experienced anything like it.  I have to be careful in this regard, because sometimes I feel like I am glamorizing the horrible things I did to my family, and others and their families by associating myself with this drug for the brief amount of time that I did.  As I have examined at length in the story... it doesn't take very long to forget yourself in the world of methamphetamine, forsaking everybody who cares about you or relies on you for something other than chasing a demon that will eventually corner and kill you.

No harm came to the puppy in the story.  We really did care an awful lot about each other outside of our use of the drugs we chose to do.  The important people in the story (Bull and I) still do care about each other, and his daughter came by just yesterday to see me, and pick up a hard copy of the manuscript so far for her dad, who is currently doing well in a rehabilitation program suited for the worst of the worst of drug addicts like us.  I pray every day for his well-being, as well as my own.

I'm always interested to hear your input, and now its becoming even more important as I am very nearly to the end of this particular story.  I'm not sure whether people are going to want to read what I have written, outside of my ever widening circle of friends and well-wishers who feel some comradery with me.  I can always hope.  I mean, the great Dr.Hunter S. Thompson made a career out of writing about fringe aspects of society which fascinated not only him, but millions of people around the world.  I'm no Dr. Thompson, and could never reasonably hope to impact the world the way he did.  I'm only writing my story, and hoping it is unique, engaging, and interesting enough to keep one more person reading it, and talking about it.

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