Like a Wet Spongecake
I spent months in a dream chasing brown trails across a foil landscape while my life collapsed like a wet spongecake. My days repeated in monochrome. Each following the same formula: wake up, go score, come home, try and take a shit, fail, take more drugs, squint at a computer screen, eat bags and bags of sweets, take more smack, possibly some crack, regret taking the crack, go out, score again, come home, go to bed, sleep 3 hours, wake up, stumble around the house, swat imaginary demons, go back to sleep, wake up. Repeat. In the beginning this wide range of activity happened around my professional life. But soon my professional life began to disappear into the drug-fug twilight. I did have a job – quite a good job – and the majority of my work was done at home. It was a smackhead’s dream really. In the mornings, when I was least fucked, I managed to get a report together and email it to my boss. I could then spend the remains of the day engaged in the activities listed above. And when my boss needed me in person, I would cut down my heroin intake, shave and possibly switch to less powerful alternatives: Buprenorphine, Codeine. That said, it wasn’t always easy. A lot of my engagements were in Edinburgh. Which was unfortunate because you can switch the name ‘Edinburgh’ with ‘Junky Central’ without too much factual inaccuracy. And I had an expense account. The temptation to hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on my hotel door, recline in a bath and suck up trails of stupefying vapor was too much. Not to knock Edinburgh, it’s a beautiful city, but I did manage to score within half an hour of stepping out of my hotel.
My professional life was always on thin ice. My employers didn’t know about my addiction and my work hovered at the ‘just barely adequate’ level. People were starting to use the word ‘concerned’ around me a lot. The word haunted my exchanges like Banquo’s ghost – a reminder of all the false expense claims and stolen time. They were ‘concerned’ about the standard of my work, ‘concerned’ about my appearance, ‘concerned’ about my diet (as if subsisting entirely on sugar was a bad thing). In Edinburgh, I unpacked my suits and shirts in a wood-paneled hotel room. I scored from a homeless man called John. I had trouble sleeping properly. Apparently, regular smack-induced comas don’t count as sleep. The next day, at work, I struggled in a barely real world. The corporate world is quite unreal anyway. A weird dystopia where motivational slogans hang on the walls and the empty hallways are haunted by things called ‘appraisals’. That afternoon my boss and I had a meeting with the CEO. We walked into the executive suite: glass-paneled rooms and beautiful secretaries – men in rude health and expensive suits. The CEO gave me a bonecrushing handshake and he and my boss sat down to business. I took a seat in the corner of the spacious office to take notes. My eyes started to cross, pupils drawn to some ocular Mecca in the internal corner of each eye. My eye muscles seemed to be mostly involuntary. I somehow pulled my pupils back to centre. And then the retreat would begin again. It was a loosing battle but I battled on gamely. Then my lids joined in: slowly traveling downwards, blurring all in their path. I pulled them back – my eyes wide open. Rather then capturing the thoughts of leaders of industry I now looked like I was watching some particularly exotic porn. And then, finally, like a sinking ship, they closed and I fully nodded out. My head hung low, one spider’s thread of drool making its way towards my French Connection suit, hands dead on the keyboard, my curser tearing across the screen leaving a single line in its wake: mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
I jerked awake, wiped my mouth and started typing again. How long was I out for? They were still talking. Thank God they were still talking. Everything seemed normal. The big swinging dicks continued to swing and I continued to make notes, poorly. To this day I don’t know if anyone noticed. Some things are not worth knowing.