Social Heroin

I'm going under the knife again. I have all the information, which, if you've been paying any attention at all, I don't like to pack around in this busy busy mind. Trivia. Just hook me up to a hose pulsing full of demerol and tell me no lies. The outcome will be what it will be. Forewarned, in my experience, changes nothing. I must have this procedure, and knowing I could be permanently disfigured, but probably not, is cold comfort. Statistically, I'm almost certainly going to be fine. But, I'll be glad when this one is over, when the drugs I love have once again passed, however briefly, through my body, and I am left twitching in their wake, trying to remember what the fucking problem was in the first place, asking Why can't I have just the teensiest bit of social heroin? Just once, twice, three times a day??? Is that too much to ask? Vicodin is no close second, but as the time gets near, I consider it. Consider the remote possibility that medical need could take me by the hand and lead me back down that old road. I still don't think I'd make it as a crack whore on MLK. I just really don't. I don't have what it takes anymore. Now I am not naive. I know a good habit would inspire me to abandon the lifestyle I have come to know, but I just can't picture it. Which is good. Who would water my flowers? Where would I keep all my hand washable linen pants? Back in the day, I could never get the grass and the garden to grow at the same time. I didn't have towels or socks.

I'm just being dramatic. I'll be fine.