Satire is Tragedy Plus Time.

Thank You Regi for the adorable tampon case that doubles as a rig cozy. No doubt the endorsement deals for Vitamin Water will start pouring in at any moment.

That amazing if incomplete quote by Lenny Bruce is a more appropriate title than anything I could have come up with. I just got home (after a lovely evening that I will tell you about later) and found a ridiculously high handed e-mail waiting for me, criticizing my outlook on of all things, my own life. I had such a good night that rather than go off on a full fledged rant, I thought I'd give you this instead. Have at it.
Right, so I get alot of shit for not being "serious" enough about addiction, for taking what might ultimately be a disaster and turning into something you can laugh at. I have plenty to say on the matter because, really it's all in the way you look at it. Sure I have my moments of despair, just like any other person, junky or not but why the fuck should I wallow in it? To satisfy someone else's sensibilities? Uh-uh, not happening.
I'm not ignorant, I know that destruction and casualties go with the territory and I've accepted that but I've also learned that shit is what you make of it and I can spin shit into cotton candy any day of the week. I could lay around lamenting my predicament, being deep and insightful but what a load of crap it would be. Why be deep when shallow is so much more rewarding? Being weepy and despondent won't fix a damn thing.
I prefer to roll with the punches and when they result in the usual busted lip, I smile at the absurdity of it all, get my ass up off the floor and move on. I don't know if it comes across here but I am a naturally pessimistic person in almost all aspects of life. That is what fuels the snide sarcasm that flows from me like water. It doesn't mean I can't have fun, it means that while I'm having it, the voices in my head are counting down all the things that can go retarded. I've learned to counter it with a pithy comment or three and the result is what you have before you. It comes through unharnessed every once in a while but for the most part, I've bound and gagged it because it's a downer and not the kind I'm interested in.
If you're bent on reading about someone who lives in regret, you've come to the wrong fucking place. That's not me at all and you won't be getting any of that "I've been through hell and come out the other side a better person" garbage from this bitch. I'm not a better person. You wanna know what makes me a better person? Being higher than shit.
When I'm loaded I'm the second fucking coming. I'll feed the hungry and heal the sick with one flick of my track-marked hand and though I may be nodded out by the time they turn to praise me, praise me they will. Yeah, blasphemy is only one of my unique talents, sermonize about that you sanctimonious jerk off!
I know how bad it gets and I'd be a liar if I didn't say I a part of me revels in it. For every time I've been sick and miserable, walking the floors in some shit hole motel there is a time that the same motel turned into a dilapidated playground, adventure around every mildewed corner.
Shooting up on fire escapes and floating back down to the alley below, stepping over some passed out drunk and turning the corner onto the street. The pulsing neon and the filth and the cars cruising by. All night churches trying to save my tar blackened soul and knowing every face that crosses my path. This is...was my wonderland, it's not stylized or enhanced by indulgent stories of remorse, it is what it is-no more, no less and that's what makes it beautiful.
M. L.