I had been feeling completely fucked physically for a week so far, sobriety is fucked, goa is fucked, white people are so fucked. This was my last chance though, this is my last chance. No more favors at this age, no longer cute to be the drug addict youngster making ridiculous choices, fucking whomever because hey, that’s what you do. 

Amazing how different the body is now as compared to 15 years ago my last time I got clean. I have these lines on my face, this weight around the middle, grey hairs by the millions. 

When did I stop being the youngest, funniest, best fuck in the lot? When did it happen that consequence to my actions was something to consider? I had for so many years been able to shrug, shake my ass a little bit or throw a few foul words out with a laugh and that was enough for people to forgive my actions. No one gives you a pamphlet or a warning for what happens after 20, much less 30 or where I stand now, well into my 30’s. There were of course the old, decrypt men that hung on the outside circle of the “tribe”. The queer soothsayers. We all ignored them though. 

“One day you will see” pointing at themselves with their frosted hair and alcoholic  noses splotchy red or mud flap tits under shirts meant for a generation they would never understand, “we are what you have to look forward to.” “Youth fades and dies, age comes for us all.” This all being said while shaking their puka shell adorned wrists. A wide, perfectly straight white toothed smile usually blinded and burned them to retreat back under the bridge or behind what ever issue of 50 over 50 strive to thrive Gay-A-R-P magazine they were reading.

I guess I was warned, but how the fuck should I have heard any warning if it wasn’t in flashing lights or driving bass? How does anyone really head a warning that is delivered on anything less than a TRL style visual palette. Could I really be blamed here?

Yes of course I could, can and do.

I know this sounds like I describe this world as a scene from GOT and maybe that sounds dramatic, but I swear to you, its not far off. We have our tribes and kingdoms all striving for dominance and begging for legitimacy. You think the Lanisters are vicious, throw a couple grams of Tine in a ring and let the bottoms rip each other bloody trying to get the last crystal shard into themselves. Put a bottle of G in a room at the end of a long party when everything else has dried up. The best of men would gut their lovers for the last 1.5 ml to be dropped into their throats burning all the way down.

There is no loyalty when it comes to drugs, and highs get lower and darker every time we try to breach. 

I type this note with a two eyed raven perched next to me on the pristine beach in India wondering if I do manage to stay sober, if I conquer this. What the hell is going to be worth while on the other side. What do I return to, now that I have burned out the most “important” years a faggot has. Have I crossed into the grey meadows of the cast  out queers? The chicken hawks, the peter the Pedo ilk. Will I become one of the bloated Bruce’s of the circuit party queens that jog in place pumping one fist in the air while listening to whatever Adele remix was currently “Blowing my fucking mind” sniffing poppers out of my other hand and burning a small ring around my nose from the splash back. 

“Do you know this track? Have you heard this tracks, this track is everything. I can’t even with this track but I must, I must even.” Sneaking a baby aspirin into my palm every time I throw back an X.

Is there a role I can play that  isn’t reading the minutes in a weekly gathering of ‘community’  losers discussing times that two, three, four cocks were not enough and life was a buffet of men, drugs and consequence free frolics, followed by a wooden chip tossed my way and congratulated for another month of boredom and solitude?

Or do I enjoy this time of letting my veins heal, the swollen parts fo my body to subside to go back, and fucking blow this heart out in style. If nothing else the high will be higher and the cost lower because my monkey on my back will be just a tad weaker. Do it fucking major. Invite all caste to the table, see how many cocks of so many shades inside of me and hopefully die fulfilled and filled by men that for at least in that messy moment act like they care of about the once young boy they are making a kebab out of. Die thinking as one does when they have as much as I would have in me, “Fuck I am gorgeous, fuck I am something special. Come on Guys Fuck me like I not the most disappointing piece of shit on the planet!”

If this was GOT, I guess I would murder everyone, steal their drugs, and die alone trying to rub one out riding the rigored cock of some enemy just to end up with some fucked infection in the butt dying alone on top of my mountain of drugs and money. Not as glam as I would want my closing moments to be. In the end though the soothsayers would be right, old men and their stupid wisdom. “Youth fades, You will become me in the end.”

Instead I will stick to the original plan and try out this sober thing for as long as it holds out. I refuse to do the higher power bullshit as I feel its lends to much responsibility to outside entities other than my self and I am fully aware I did this. Side note, I do like the reward system though so props to the double vowels for that. 

I bought 200 grams of pure silver from the mines on the Pakistani border. In town here in Pololem there is a jewelry maker I have hired to Make coins for me.

Pure silver Jonah coins, a coin for every milestone I pass. Coins actually worth something, coins I can use. I guess I need to accept the fact that I too have crossed the veil of relevance so the longer I can hold this out, the more my pocket will sag.

If I can’t be young anymore, if I can’t feel the bounce back of my skin like I use to or enjoy the sight seen through eyes that are not puffy as fuck when I awake. 

I sure as fuck can make sure I can afford to buy the hottest whore around and fuck some of this youth back into myself. If I can’t be it, fuck it.