Sunday, July 07, 2013


There is one thing people will be able to say about me when I'm gone: He died clean.

Sure, they will say, he could be a jerk, and yes, he was sometimes closed and cold, and you bet your ass he wasn't always the life of the party — sometimes he could be a real dick — but at least he wasn't a junky when he died.

I mean, that's saying something, right?

The past few days have been trying. Historically that has been an excuse to fall back on bad old habits. Not scratching is hard to do when there's such an irresistible itch, and keeping my fingernails away from the itch has not been fun. I've wanted to scratch until I bleed. 'Cause when you can't sleep, nothing spells relief like diacetylmorphine.

But that same relief can lead to ruin. It can destroy all the good. It has. I'd rather run low on sleep than pile it into the ditch again. Not that it matters anymore. But there is the consolation of knowing that I am clean. What was once a vice, then a habit, then a fucking gorilla on my back is now a receding bad memory.

When it's time to listen to bad music at my wake, my friends and enemies can lift a toast and say it, too: he died clean. So just a warning to them: snorting or smoking my ashes will do you no good.

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