
Originally Posted by
Lemonjello
I am what many of you would call a drug addict. The more open minded would addend the adjective functional to that definition, but it would be an addiction nonetheless. I have neglected my duties to myself, and have instead fed my head instead of working for happiness. This makes many people unhappy. They say I have a problem. I say that they are the ones who have a problem. They crawl on their hands and knees to paradise, while I get there in a few minutes for $50 a hit. The regressive forces of society, religious and secular, have joined forces to prevent man from attaining nirvana. There are those who say it drains the soul, and makes man a monster, desperately craving his next fix.
I say they are wrong, wrong, wrong. That cold, unfeeling brute of a force, the flame of Prometheus, has finally solved the age old problem of the human condition. Philosophy and art attempted to help us overcome it, religion tried to fill the void with God, and everything in between has attempted to help man be content with himself. But none of it worked. Promise was shown with alcohol, but it was imperfect. But it hit upon something: chemical manipulation could give man what he wanted without any of the tortuous, damning, self-contradicting work of tearing it away from others.
This was my epiphany - my enlightenment. I first hit upon it when I was but a child of sixteen; I discovered a bottle of codeine based cold medicine and took about thrice the dosage prescribed on the label. I felt wonderful, like one of the angels in heaven must feel like. A welcome drowsiness overtook me - not like one of those that drag you along to sleep, but as if I was already basking in the afterglow of a lovers' tryst. I let the floor envelop me, and though there was no matttress for me to lie on, or blanket to cover me, I had never slept better.
I will spare my audience the nit picking details of my journey to bliss, but I shall tell you this: enlightenment is hell. Enlightenment shows you the ugly realities of life, and God. Who was this God? He cast people who had not surrendered him into a pit of fire for eternity. Perhaps we are already there. But I digress. Buddha wanted me to walk his tightrope, Yahweh wanted adherence to irrational laws governing my diet, and so on.
What did heroin want? Nothing. Heroin never wanted anything from me.
I am strong. I am functional. At the end of the day, I shoot up and I feel better than God. God is jealous and wrathful. Every neuron in my body is immolated in ecstasy. My god is an arrangment of chemicals, and the only thing I have to do for it is cook it in a spoon, put it in a needle, and find the main line. Genocide in Darfur? Problems with my family? America going down the tubes? Son, I couldn't care about those things if I could even think about them. Heroin makes life more than tolerable: it makes life great. Even better than that, it is killing me. Soon, I will not have to deal with the human condition. I will be Dead. And Life, while I have it, will be more than worth living.
Feel free to flame me, but check your Huxley at the door.