I was great, not good or sub-par. We were morally bankrupt and that my dear strangers, that was fucking delicious. When the burden of selfish actions don’t bare any weight on your soul, do you know how freeing that can be? To say to hell with it all, and take it in with a smile. We were addicted to happiness, and heroin was the right chaser. Stick it in my arm, make me howl in euphoric pleasure. I was your fiend, you were a slave to the needle. I had the needles, so you were my slave. Do you remember when I broke your nose in a fiend-like craze? I thought you were holding out on me, and you fucking were. I choked you, pushed you against the wall and you bit my fucking skin off, sex ensued….we needed the dopamine. The religious man, the man with the beard, fingering those annoying rosary beads, and with the steady eyes. He cast presumptuous looks in my direction, praying to his God would be my redemption he said; I pissed on his faith. I spun a web of deceit and lies, I made him scream for a higher power, higher than his so-called God, he screamed for drugs, sex, but not rock’n'roll. He fancied himself as an intellectual dope-head. Shooting up while listening to the haunting voice of Abdulbasit, he was high and he cried. He told me once that drugs were the true testament to a just God up there. The slave laughed, the fiend, being me, giggled to no end…we were junkies, the three of us. We were dirty junkies. Two of us were escaping from moral and social responsibilities while the third was running towards morality with open arms. We were junkies, two of us are dead, and I’m still a junkie.
They say, they say, they say. Well fuck they I say, they’ve done this they’ve done that. It should be about we, we, we. Us , not them and they. I’ve been told that they are the people here. So they are here, and where are we? If we’re not here, are we there? Shouldn’t they be there, while we should be here. We are a priority, and they are not. Ranting of a sane junkie are pathetic, while an insane one makes for a lively night. We’re a part of your city, just like the stars add intrigue to the great black blanket in the sky. We’re the speckles in the city that add that sort of atmosphere, you and your boozed up friends enjoy. So yes, I think I deserved the coin you flicked into my cup. Don’t you dare tell me to get a job, I don’t tell you to come bum it up with me. I lead my life, and you lead yours. Your happy, I’m happy. Happy, happy, happy. I never knew if I was the sane, or the insane junkie. You might be the best judge of that.
So the slave, she had a daughter. Fucking with no protection, guarantees a seed surviving, my seed of all seeds..boo fucking hoo. That poor bastard probably sled out of her mother’s pleasure chute fiending for some black tar. I don’t know if I should refer to her as a bastard, I mean it’s a fitting term, but fuck she’s my own flesh and blood, and it’s not too appropriate to refer to the mother as a slave, I mean she did die and all. But I’m insane, I’ve lost my morals…so three cheers to the dead slave, and her bastard daughter.
Who would’ve thought Riyadh would be rampant with us, the drug and sex abusers. Things are always on delay here, it took the 60’s roughly 80 years to catch up to Saudi. Free love, and drugs…I loved it. Past-tense being the key term, while I take pride in being a bum…it’s a hard job. My body’s fucked from all the abuse over the years, so it’s hard putting up with this hellish heat.
I should stop, and think why I’m writing this. I’ve never mastered the literary arts, I’ve never used the word “arts” before. Fuck, I hope this book doesn’t change me, or turn me into a snob, because as I’m sure you all know authors are snobs. My hobo friends really look up to me, as being the man that couldn’t care less. It’s a lie, I do care…if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to be writing this. I want to be fucking remembered, god damn it. I want my long overdue praise. Just like movie stars have their biographies, CEOs have their bullshit infested how-to books…a junkie should leave his literary footprint behind. I’m not talking about the quitters, who blame drugs for their shitty lives. No, fuck that. I’m talking about a book with no shame, guilt, or regret. A book about my shameless life, and one-sided love affair with drugs. Who knows, a kid might be walking down the daunting halls of his local library, and bam…he sees a tattered book with a needle on the cover, he’s intrigued. The dumbass picks up the book, he’s hooked…he’s already a fiend. I would probably be dead by the time some cunt is inspired by my not so average life, but it comforts me knowing that I might be able to breathe inspiration into children. Why bother with being an accountant, lawyer, or even worse..an HR guy. I’m doing our future a great service. I don’t know if my lack of sanity will hinder my ability to write coherently, but fuck me if that’s not the beauty of it. You’ll be reading, and think what the fuck is this guy saying? I know I’m rambling, that’s what we bums are great for. Rambling, crazy theories, oh and we’re known rapists as well. The change in Saudi was so sudden, that you would have to been on drugs to slow things down enough to soak it all in.
Lucky for you cunts, I happen to have been on drugs most of my life.
In case you it hasn’t hit you, this was a work of fiction.
Song on my mind: Caravan – And I Wish I Were Stoned
“Dreamed I saw a man walked upon the sea
Dreamed it once again and saw that he was me
Looking close at me I looked a lot like you
Knowing where to go but not quite what to do”
