Railroad bones and desert roads
Boiling silicone on the stove
Glasswhite ice and severed toes
Upon our grave, a wilted rose
The time has come, the walrus said, to get your fucking act together. The amount of money that flows through your hands is like jew's ash under the nails of a thousand jackbooted policemen - You need to stop pouring this bittersharp pain-sweetened chemical haze into your synapses.
Drowning out the signal of the real world with the noise of drugs doesn't make the real world go away. It just pushes you further into this moebical stupor-cycle, trapped loops and halftwists of fate that endlessly roll under the waves of novelty and beauty that you are awash in - But you're in far, far over your head. You don't take the time to reflect on what we create, what we live in - Who we live with, and why.
No more drugs. not until you have something to show for all your hard work. If by my nineteenth birthday I have in excess of fifteen hundred dollars that is MY profit and not owed, then I shall consume ONE tab.
For every cigarette I smoke on any given day, I will make up for it by performing either a) ten push-ups, b) A 500m run or c) fifteen reps on the benchpress. Given that I usually smoke in excess of fifteen to twenty cigarettes a day, this will both cut down my carcinogen intake and also help me regain some semblance of a semi-attractive body.
[ Doctor 2.0 ]