Dedicated to drug users, and the late Hunter S. Thompson.
This is tragedy, honorific, humorous journey of one writer reaching too high to write books. If you enjoyed Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke, or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, you will be buzzed again by this book. If you like jumping in jungle gyms while intoxicated, drowning in a water fountain in front of a hotel, while equipped with designer drugs, or following the police while high on cocaine, this drug I mean book is for you.
None of us chose our lives. None of us plan to take a hit of meth or become addicted to Robitussin. None of us are given a hand book like a BSA manual on how to overcome ourselves. By the time most of us realize how and why we got here, it is too late.
As I type this mental dribble, if this was an NBA play, it would be called traveling with the ball. There is no rhyme, no Pulitzer Prize waiting for this hack. This is a book about defeat, attempts, repeat attempts, dreams, losses, and being real. The only fake part is I have changed the names but not the game. For you may forget the drug but the drug never forgets you.
AA does work but not for me. Hunter S. Thompson took his own life. The drugs took their toll but not his soul. Enter the journey of a mad boy, madman who still is still living in a drug state since 1973; at least off and on. Drugs lead to more drugs, more drugs leads to more booze, more boozing leads to mood swings, sex without control, and motivation going into your throat hole. If you have the drugs you are rock star to girls you never could get without it, and never will see after it. That’s why everybody is turning gay or lesbian, for the cause, sex is not the reason. The fucking drug will cause you to change your causes down to a cause; another high, crash.