“Only a damned lunatic would write something like this and claim that it was true.”
- Hunter S Thompson.
Embittered voices that bleak December night. My insistence to go out on the town was not well received by the bottom feeders. The sight of cocaine had become nauseating. Any drug that you feel a need to administer from a stripper's tits is no serious drug at all.
There is only so many hotel rooms you can trash before it becomes boring. But that's where it ended up. Twenty weak hairlines smuggled into my hotel room to celebrate my birthday. I looked around the room and had what addicts call a moment of clarity.
If I didn't get out soon I'd never see forty. But the challenge was gargantuan. I'd need to sever from the enablers that lionised my exploits. I'd need to cut off the women in my inbox. But first of all I'd need to go cold turkey.
Why I didn't act then I'll never know.
For years I broke through the bedrock at the bottom, bathing in heroin; blissful and hopeless. It's a bad place to be when you lose even your most delusional hope. Even tramps stopped looking me in the eye.
I tied a noose and hung it in my bedroom. Deterred from ever using it by the fact that I would evacuate my bowels on expiration. Nobody should ever find me like that. Hanging there like a shit scented car air freshener.
During lockdown, sourcing drugs became difficult. I found myself accepting wanton invitations, drinking myself into a catatonic trance and sobbing furiously on women's sofas. My esteem had long been quantified by the attention of women, the cavities filled with drugs. None of it was working. Pushing ever closer to fatal overdose in a vain attempt to take the edge off.
Then I found myself on stage. The darkness I looked out on mirrored the one within. But in the deathly silence there was only peace. Throwing jokes into the dark infinity that responded with howling laughter.
I'd been told that cold turkey on this scale was a death sentence. But I took this as a challenge.
The fever hits like a wall of noise. My pores burned with a toxic sweat that festered its way through my shirt like battery acid. Muscles screamed in contraction and left me in a pile on the floor and my heart punched like a jackhammer. Cracking through my ribs and off down the road in search of a better life.
Just like that I was clean. What a mistake. What a terrible, terrible mistake.
“O calm dishonourable, vile submission!”
Mercutio - Romeo and Juliette Act 3 Scene 1
So what's been the point in this self indulgent, narcissistic tirade?
I'm glad I've had experienced what I have. I've endured emotional contortions that most people cannot imagine. But in doing so I've bastardized my soul. But I was helped along the way.
I've awoken from my chemical duress to find the burglars still in the house.
Institutions with a duty of care have commodified our unhappiness. The same people who supplied my addictions are now convincing parents that their children's unhappiness is terminal unless they are mutilated.
I fought in the war on drugs and we took casualties. Not everyone made it out. Shit I'm still only in Castleford. Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle. I've been here years, getting softer. And all the time Charlie's out there getting stronger.
They cut that shit with fentanyl and xylazine now. One line could drop you like a tomahawk missile. My own GP continually tries to prescribe me fentanyl knowing full well my hyper-addictive nature. Meanwhile the food is poisoned and resides in communist styled supermarkets while any notion of comfortable living is laughable.
I'm cashing in my chips. Any woman who reads this trilogy and still looks at me with any attraction needs to be discussing this with their therapist. How many red flags do you need? Why do you do this to yourself? I want to be left alone to bury the dead and cook my nitroglycerin.
I haven't even been cancelled but I have suffered untold damage simply for loving someone who has. Words cannot describe the unbridled, destructive horror of watching someone you love decay through constant exposure to people who belong in psych wards. Stalked and harassed by people who by natural selection ought to have been bullied into the carpet fibres. People who make crackheads look like Boy Scouts.
Who even are these people? Contact with them inevitably only leaves you with a rash. They move through scenes and communities that won’t challenge their wretched behaviour and I’ve seen where that leads. Pulling a thin veil of righteousness over their self loathing like we can’t hear it crying.
Their inadequacies desperate to bring you low to medicate their jealousy and bring you to their subterranean level. To remove your livelihoods, your voice and blacken your reputation under the retarded notion that false virtue will purge their discomfort.
I'll tell you here and now what a bad person I am. I'm an impatient, intolerant and insensitive man. I have a talent for cruelty and I'm a vicious drunk. I'm selfish, difficult to live with and I'm a recovering addict. I’ve spent my entire life disappointing the people I love because I have the emotional capacity of a toaster. But I’m loyal and I have integrity and I won’t stand by and watch abuse without bringing napalm.
Alas, you don't need to be scared of these people to for them to make you sick. Their ambient madness is airborne and will infect any space it can colonise. They mean to unperson you to deny your god given anger because that’s what they fear most. And I can smell it from a distance. It hangs in the air like cat piss.
They say hate like it's a dirty word. Hate will set you free. Hate is a fire that will purge even the most persistent bacteria. Hate will drive you to do things that love can only dream of. Hate is the most powerful emotion in the world and it is your right to exercise it. It is your defence mechanism; the natural reaction to being fucked in the arse by walking abortions with black mirrors where souls should be.
To deny your natural reaction to attack or violation is the cornerstone of all abuse and I’d rather watch the world burn than submit to it.
There's nothing left to do now but to sit back and enjoy the absurdity of it all. Do you really want to look back on these years and say you didn't have a laugh? If everything’s fucked then what does it matter? If everything is futile then you may as well enjoy yourself.
Careers will be taken, health will suffer, you’ll lose everything and brought eye to eye with inferiority. But know this losing everything is true freedom. When you have nothing to lose you are at your most dangerous.
Sooner or later I’ll play landlord to a vile tumour and I’ll laugh myself into a frenzy knowing I’ve lived a fuller life than these servile beings.
I know that you can knowingly make a horrific life decision that will burn forever. I know I can make them time and time again and I’ll survive. But in those mistakes; for one brief, shining moment before the crash I’m in zero gravity where the world can't touch me. It’s like the sun has risen just for me.
The rest is silence.
Other Hateful Substack Coming Soon!
I’ve made my posts all free to subscribe for the time being to reach a larger audience and petition for more support while I prepare for my summer run of gigs. This chapter in Mein legal Kampf may be over but I still have a testicle crushing legal bill to cover. Please continue to support free speech in the arts and allow me to perpetually be a problem by donating to my Crow Justice Campaign or by buying a fabulous piece of hatewear designed by The Famous Artist Birdy Rose. You can also come see me perform this hateful shit live at The Barnyard Comedy Club on 2nd of June by clicking that cheeky link below.
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