SICK

.
Sick. We were sick. We lay in bed, wrapped up in filthy blankets, smoking, sometimes fucking, doing animal things, you know... like being sick.

Sick. We were sick. Sick in bed. Sick in life. Sick by life. Sick. And we made each other sick.

Sick. Watching TV for days on end, sweating furiously but too bored to pull the covers off. Filthy feet. Filthy legs. Separated by a valley of cigarette ends. Stuffing our faces full of fatty, greasy foods. Shutters down. Apartment crawling with bugs. Toilet blocked. Sick. We were so fucking sick.

Sick. Not dope sick. Life sick. Diseased by pasts and visions and sounds and leather belts and erect cocks and murder. Sick. We were made sick by all these things. Sick. Sickened by cunt. Wet mushy drunken gang-banged cunt. Sick. We were sick. I was Sick. She was sick.

Sick. Locked in the apartment, blankets up against the windows, dust in the sunbeams, Repulsion looping on the DVD player. Sick, the room smelled of sick. Two diseased lovers with open welts, leaking abscesses, strange bumps and sores and scars. Sick. The days made us sick. Fresh air made us sick. We stopped answering the door, muted the TV, and silently gagged when the buzzer rang. Sick. We looked at each other in terror, sick, a mirror of ourselves, sick. And in the bed we lay, puking up milk and yoghurt in our sleep, choking to death on the trauma of the life we had seen. Sick. That's what we were: Sick.

And outside, the grimy, slick, lit up city  became a hostile place. We concocted stories and plots, sick sick things, of a world of enemies encroaching upon us. Sick, we listened through the walls, eyed neighbours through the spy-hole: big, warped, looping faces, coming in, examining our door, the apartment bugged. Sick, the postman working for Interpol. Sick, police surveillance in the building opposite. Sick. We invented laws, sick laws, laws that said the flat couldn't be raided between 3 and 5am. So we'd rise, sick, in the early hours, cracking eggs and frying sausages and bacon and cabbage and bread; stuffing our mouths full of sandwiches dripping oil and ketchup, then, climbing back into bed and pulling the blankets tight around our necks so as we couldn't smell our own arseholes. Sick. The times were sick. We were sick. The hours were sick, and they dripped on by.

Sick. We slept like the sick: feverish, groaning and tensing up, our hair wet with sweat and stuck to our brows, mucus, dribble, crying through dreams, clenched fists and ugly faces. Sick. We were sick. Saying, “It hurts! It hurts so bad!” Drifting off into worlds of black, The Sins of our Fathers seeping out our skins. Sick. Ravaged by life. Sick. Sick to the bones. Turning grey. Fingers dark yellow. World shut out. TV on. Lines of bugs filing up the bin bags. Insane erections leaking watery cum. Tampons kicked to the bottom of the the bed with the socks. The flies gathering. Death getting near. Sick. We were so terribly sick.

Sick. 114 missed calls. 33 new messages, battery low, notes under the door, sick:

“Where R U?” [sic]
“Called to read lekky meter. return monday @ noon” [sic]
“Sis, Are You OK? Call me.” [sic]
“Your shower's leaking into our apartment!” [sic]
“24/7 Plumbing emergency services: need access ASAP!” [sic]
“Whats happening? Please answer phone. Getting vry worried!” [sic]
“Monday noon. Called, no answer. Please leave meter reading on door.”  [sic]
'Domino's Pizza Wednesday Special. Half-Price. Free home delivery' [sic]
“Sis, I know your there. if you don't give sign will call police!” [sic]
“Ceiling and bathroom carpet ruined. phoning agency. It's raw sewage! PIGS!!!” [sic]

Sick. We did what we had to do: sent a text; pushed the notes back under the door; held our livers and crawled back into bed. Sick. We were made sick and we spewed it all out. On the floors, into bags, on the blankets, on each other, we were sick. Bright yellow bile, lumps of intestine, slithers of liver, black jellied blood. Sick, our kisses were sick. In the 69 position we were sick. Sucking and licking and bobbing like children, retching on each others pleasure. Sick.You tasted of curdled milk and fresh-smeared shit, and God knows what I was to you. Sick, our future was SICK. Our love was SICK. We were SICK, doing animal things, you know... like eating grass, getting better by being SICK.

43 comments :

Who Am Us Anyway? said...

"Repulsion looping on the DVD player" -- well i won't be forgetting that lyric anytime soon

karl said...

SICK. It's half past 7 Sunday morning, I,ve just read SICK, too may familiar scenes even down to the butts in the bed. The flat is a state. Always chasing the contiual arriving of bills, never having enough money, best laid plans that are always going to shit
SICK! sick in the heart, sick in the mind.
Dark clouds, silver linings, SICK has inspired me. I'm getting the coffee on & rolling a big fat spliff. the decorating has been waiting for 3 years. The
decorating has begun.

Shane thankyou for your SICK
xxKarl

bugerlugs63 said...

I didn't really want to join you in that bed . . . but you drew me in and now I feel Sick.
Insane erections . . .
I wish I could put words together like you do.
Fucking brilliant Shane, as always.
Love it x

smackhead said...

Fucking styling - 2 fucking familiar tho. Dnt know you but u have talent and makes me ashamed of my frkng blog BUT ANYWAY!
Sick b...

_Black_Acrylic said...

I think of you and worry, then check this blog and there's another post up today. And as someone already said, it's fucking brilliant. I'll get round to sending you an email later this evening x

The Pseudo-Impostor said...

stunning, seminal, sublime, and strangely simultaneously real and surreal. Such depths of your experience reflected in the heights of our langauge. Show 'em Shane, in the excellence of depravity

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Ya Who Am Us Anyway, lyou're welcome to it... just make sure you find a better singer than me. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey karl, yeah, sometimes this life we lead gradually descends to the pit of something and gets really depraved, and it's not only addiction I speak of, but sometimes just what daily living turns into when you lose all kind of romance and self-care and belief in the future. But there's also sometimes a kind of cleansing which takes place in these things, descending right to the bottom, getting all the ills and disease out, living in it for a while until the day comes where you rip the curtains open and have a massive clean up. Even thinking of such times makes me itch, remembering long, hot, uncomfortable nights.... mess everywhere and the same images looping around and around on the TV. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Bugerlugs, well it's not a very enticing bed, I agree...but looking behind me right now I don't have too much better to offer. I once wrote, when I was a little dope sick, that more than anything I craved fresh sheets and pillows, you know, those innocent pleasures that used to be so great before this thing took off. I don't remember the last time I really enjoyed getting into bed... being so tired that the sheets and coziness were the greatest comfort you could have. I miss little things like that, and don't think I can ever regain them. It's thoughts and desires like that which makes putting words together effortless. It often feels like the words are pre-set, are already within me and I just type them out. That doesn't mean it's easy though. All the stuff inbetween which strings the texts together, the more technical stuff, is exhausting and a lot of hard work. My first drafts are such a jumble of thoughts and poetry that they can sometimes take a week just to sort out and get to the heart of.

Insane erections was getting at how when ill and feverish a dick often has a mind of its own... and especially with dope sickness in the mix, men can get these kind of unsexual erections where the penis is acting out all on its own... to the extent that it becomes agonizing and frustrating. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Smackhead, I think we all use the blogger platform in different ways and I never set this palce up to 'blog'. I set it up as a place to publish my thoughts and writings around a few interconnecting subjects. If I was putting up daily or even weekly entries, a record of day-to-day living, the texts would be of a very different caliber. So I think our two places are incomparable in that way and yours has a different worth, that's all.

All My Thoughts, Shane. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Ya Ben... Oh, you don't have to worry about me, and really, I think if anything not so good should arrive then I've already left behind a few decent book loads of texts online and so it wouldn't be the greatest tragedy in those terms. I got your mail and will drop a nice reply tomorrow as I have quite a bit to tell and I have the PERFECT little gift for you after learning about your film:
Death Paints Red Daubings a 7 minute homage to Giallo films.

Love and Thoughts, Shane. X

PS: You can visit and post your links here ANYTIME... even if it's only for that. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Russell, I'm really not sure how to respond to that comment... though it's certainly going to the top of my blurb list. Thanks for your continued support and kindness.... it really means a lot, and more than my writing here, the reputation of this place has been built on the words others have said of it.

All My Thoughts, Shane. X

Wildernesschic said...

Sick.. fucking sick..
Fucking ace..
Fucking depraved and brilliant
I love the section about not being dope sick but life sick..
Shane your ace kid
lots of love hoping your not really sick
Ruth xx

Gledwood said...

Do you really get truly horny when sick? I couldn't bare being mawled by another person when I was dope sick no fucking way I've heard a group of blokes once talking of amazing sex they had while clucking. Surely it was sex with themselves. How anyone can bare to be touched in that state defies logic. That's one big reason I was put off prostitution: the idea of having to go through with it in that fucking state of affairs.

As for the fag ends everywhere etc etc, that's just normality for me ha ha har.

_Black_Acrylic said...

cheers Shane! That perfect little gift has got me moist with anticipation.

JoeM said...

Even for non users this rings bells. There IS something cathartic in 'letting things go', knowing that you're going to let it go right to the edge then purge - getting better by being SICK.

To be a bit vanilla:I'm almost OCD in the way that I have to tidy the room, make the bed etc first thing and never go to work or elsewhere until it's done. But if for whatever reason I miss a day I can let it slide until just before the point of no return.

I hoover once a week. But there's a patch of dust under a chair that I can't get to unless I pull a lot of furniture around so I leave it and leave it as an indicator of what the rest would look like if I let things go. (That would be a good metaphor for a story: The Dust Beneath the Chair)

I'm also interested to see if Quentin Crisp was right when he (who famously never once cleaned his own room 'in 30 long dark years') said 'Don't lose your nerve because after the first 4 years the dirt doesn't get any worse'. He added: 'Unkind friends say I have the dirt sent in from Fortnum and Masons. But that's not true: I merely don't clean the place'.

Kono said...

Ah the cock always has a mind of it's own now doesn't it? hence i believe all erections are a state of mental illness be they to produce children or provide pain relief or what have you, be it hungover or high on acid or lovingly beating a flaccid noodle while smoking rock, they just seem to take control and go about their business whether you like it or not... good piece though yet the editorial side of me believes it would hit much harder if it was tightened up a bit, then again opinions are like assholes as we know...

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Ruth, no I'm not really sick but my apartment is doing any better for it! Poor thing. In my entire renting history I have NEVER got a deposit back. Here there's been a flood, a fire, the shower fell down, the light over the hob melted, the shutters are broke, the toilets unscrewed, the door to the electricity cupboard got blown off, the heatings fucked (and after trying to fix it is double fucked), the main doors sagging and I had to slice an inch off the bottom to close it, the locks all jam, the sinks blocked and comes upin the shower, there's blood all over the ceiling... and walls... and doors.. and floors. When I moved in it was in mint condition.... I've really done my deposits worth this time! XXX

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

hey Gledwood, proper dope sick, no, I don't get horny.... jesus, I don't think anyway can as you're too ill to sustain a hard on. But when I'm either just getting sick, or just getting over sickness, I get really weird sensitive hard-ons that can be relieved in two strokes. But these are not pleasurable erections, they're very annoying and painfully irritating. I agree with you, anyone who says they fuck during sickness is talking bollocks or they're not actually sick.

I think with prostitution the idea is to fuck so you don't get sick. That's probably another reason why you never did it... you're looking at it as something only to do when completely desperate, and though that's the time you'd need to do it, it's also the time you can't do it.

Yep, dog-ends a constant in my life too.... I actually have to sweep my bed each morning (and I'm not joking!) X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hi Joe! X

Oh, even when i'm not using I'm terrible but not quite as bad as I make out here. I mean it does get that bad, and quite often, but I do have a tidy up at least once a week and when I'm writing seriously every other day. I CANNOT write in a messy room... I just can't. So anytime I'm writing or intending to write the room is freshly tidied. As I write quite a bit it keeps the place tidy(ish). The place doesn't have to be spotless, but well enough that it doesn't interfere with my thoughts. I do sometimes cheat though, scrape out a corner and sit typing with all hell broken loose behind me. In fact, I'm doing that right now... X

PS: Great Quentin Crisp quotes... I'll have to steal them for myself.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Kono... if my cock's got a brain it must be a pretty retarded one on account of the idiotic places it's gotten itself into. I don't know... cocks are great dowsing rods I suppose.

Come off it... to say a piece of writing could be tightened up is such a clichéd generalism that it is true of every text ever written; it's such common currency it's meaningless. Also, let's not forget that as there are good and bad writers so there are good and bad editors, and a bad editor will tighten a great piece of writing to death - if he doesn't reject it right out of hand. Look how poor John Fante was treated by editors in his lifetime, and a fantastic book like ASK THE DUST would certainly never have seen light if it wasn't for his own dogged perseverance. Then there's Orwell's novel, Keep The Aspidistra Flying, the original text all but ruined by an editor.

I will tell you a story about an editor, a quite well known one, and what happened when he was given my work... and then what happened when I played a little trick on him...

I've not time to write it up now, but will do tomorrow. It's interesting as it shows just what even so-called 'very respected' editors miss, and shows that if your looking to make changes, you'll always find something to change. Keep your eyes peeled and Take Heed as a certain Mrs Winthrope would tell you! X

.

Kono said...

Fair enough i'd say, it is a right fucking generalization, to be more specific i got sick of reading the word sick, and not in the sick sense of course but in the tired of it i get it sense, so there's the tighten up, i guess as a reader i don't need to be beat over the head with things... and i am in complete agreement on the editing thing, it can be done to death and destroy a piece, i like to keep it loose and sloppy if you know what i mean and when it's the internets even looser and sloppier... cheers and i'm looking forward to the story...

though i would say even today a guy like Fante would have to have dogged perserverance to get his shit out there, i won't go on a diatribe against the literary/publishing establishment but if you ain't some shit like Nicky Sparks no one is gonna beat down the door to put it out there, Phillip Roth has some interesting things to say about that, pointing the finger at the reader and society as much as the author/ authors who are producing today, i particularly liked his comment about book lengths and the more i take notice the more i see he's right. cheers again.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey again Kono,

It was a stylistic piece based on repetition and with the idea of the physical process of vomiting going on in the background... getting every last bit of Sick out. To edit out the word 'sick' would defeat the point of the exercise, and just as surely as I could remove a few 'sicks', I could equally add even more without breaking the rhythm of the text. I think you can always judge if you've nailed such a piece correctly as others follow on, commenting in the style the text and giving it their own little encore. I think it's just about rightly balanced, and to me it reads and flows well. Though when an unbalanced man thinks something's balanced there's always some cause for concern. The text could have equally been posted on my poetry site... we've got to chop things up.... writing becomes insanely boring otherwise.

I don't think Fante would generally have trouble getting his stuff published, I think there was a lot of misfortune involved, and maybe something unrefined that people saw in him. He came into bat at the wrong time wielding a bat with an old handle but a new whack. All the editors and publishers around him, some highly regarded names, were riding on a new wave and Fante passed beneath them. Nevertheless, these great men of literary taste read and missed one of the greatest writers of the time... their eyes were on other things. There's a huge chance that without Arturo Bandini, Chinaski would never have been born.But let's not forget, getting published has very little to do with what you're writing and has much more to do with who puts your name to a publisher/editor. That's a tragedy, but how it is.

I've an essay I've written on the subject but have nowhere to put it at the moment. I do think though that writers need to get over the obsession of being published and just concentrate on getting their stuff out there. I'm interested in helping literature escape its confines of covers, and bring it into a new arena which can have just as much respect as the last. Right now the internet is a window of opportunity for real cutting edge artists, where we can work unregulated, unedited, and uncensored... it will not remain like that, but in this time we have a space to be really transgressive and not just have it as another marketing label. The problem is it's hard to write while working 8hrs a day, and to get paid for your writing means taming it down to commercial shit and doing awful things like adding 'dramatic tension'. We're being held to ransom and it's not easy to persevere regardless. I will though... I enjoy guns being put to my head... does weird things to my cock....

Oh God... there I go again.... time to stop... X

Bee said...

Brilliant writing but concerned about your neighbours, did the leak get fixed?

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey bee and welcome! X

The thing is, when you write nice sentences the neighbours tend to forgive you leaking shit through their ceiling... it's one of the greatest benefits of being a writer.

I did stop the leak in the bathroom, yes. Eventually I got up and turned the tap off... it wasn't easy though. X

Alexandra Cohen said...

Existential Crisis....

Hi Shane!

I'm still reading each your post and your blog is one of the most brilliant readings I have in my RSS fetcher.

There's a thing that's stuck in my mind for the past few months and for some reason I want to ask you about it.

Have you ever had an existential crisis or whatever the hell it's called to not sound this ridiculously big? Like when you wake up in the morning and whatever you do there's a thought popping up in your head: what's the point of doing this and that if I'm going to die anyway? Moreover each time you see a person - a friend or just random man in subway - the first thought about them is that they're going to die too no matter what they're trying to achieve in their lives. Moreover there's a question that makes me most curious: why do they keep trying to achieve smth: make a career, family etc if they, their children and their grandchildren will be dead and forgotten in the end? Do they even ask that themselves?

If you have time and desire to answer, I'd really want to hear your opinion. Besides you being a great writer and very thoughtful person, you of all people should know or at least have an interesting opinion about such matters as death, meaning of person's life etc or well that's what I think.

Take care,

Polter said...

It's strange how sickness feels so right,
as the only true reaction to any action.
when dreams and release are paid for in producing self-loathing amounts of crap.
because norms are heavily taxed forms to avoid.

I wish the world could just let go, and let me flow for a while.
I wish my armS were strong and could lift me up for a while;
to give my feet a rest from the ground.
to rather hang on to something touching it, than being near it myself.
Because the ground smells like iron
and iron smells like pain.
And my head hurts when I refuse to notice.

Hope you're fine and hope you’re well
hope you find a place where better grows taller than worse.

kympton said...

Hey Shane
I have just read your sick piece. I think it is fucking out there with some of the best. You truly do have raw talent, i think the marker to look for in an artist, whether it be paint poetry writing singing etc, is continued quality. Sometimes i read your posts and think your a little off your game, but then other times i read something that blows me away. And that's good i think, because someone else may read that post and think its great. But all in all you knock out some blinding writing. I sometimes read a post 30 or 40 times and try to take it apart. I try to imagine what it was that made you put something a certain way, or how much fiction has been inserted and how much its based on your experiences. All in all i want to say your fukin brill. And also helpful and comforting, it makes me feel a little better sometimes to know that someone else out there has suffered and craved and mutilated, and fuk'd things up pretty much the same as i have. So thanks for your guts, when it comes to saying the things that are hidden away, and being proud that you done it. With no shame....

As always love and care.....kympton

Anonymous said...

eeeh...you nasty motherfucker shane, just reading that made me itch and screw my face up...thats a talent youve got there, why cant you write something NICE for once;-)

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Eeeeh...

That was nice... I left the nasty bits out so as not to tarnish my saintly reputation. If I told the REAL truth no-one would ever want to kiss me again. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey alexandra,

An existential crisis? Not really, no. I've had crisis's when I've kinda questioned what it's all about and just what it all means, but outside of my teenage years and small periods of unhappiness, they've not been negative thoughts. I have my own philosphy and ideas on what life is and how hopeful or hopeless it is. I think individual hope is always gonna be tinged with negativity, but collective hope and what we are as a species and what earth is and is a part of, I think we can find calm and worth in that.

what's the point of doing this and that if I'm going to die anyway? Moreover each time you see a person - a friend or just random man in subway - the first thought about them is that they're going to die too no matter what they're trying to achieve in their lives.

So what, people should not bother living because they're going to die? I mean that kind of thinking can get pretty silly: Why wash when you're only gonna get dirty again? Why get out off bed in the morning when you're only gonna get back in at night? Why breathe in when you're only gonna breathe back out? Why put your shoes on when you're only gonna take them off again? Etc, etc. You can't live your life like that, and just because we don't understand existence or death doesn't mean there isn't something much bigger and more worthwhile going on. And with family, if we don't think of 'family' but as 'multiplying'... 'multiplying' because the human race, an organism, has some job to do in a mucher bigger scheme than what we can see, then you can see why family/multyiplying seems so important. The human race has got to thinking that it is the biggest smartest thing in the universe... but what if the universe is just the space between atoms which themselves are a part of something else which is living? What if we are so small that we cannot and will never be able to see or comprehend the truth? What if where we are magnifying things to see the truth we should really be shrinking it? Shrink the whole universe down into something we can see? Maybe then we'll understand existence in a totally new way... maybe death will become an easy and comprehensible thing?

So no, I don't have an existential crisis, though I've had them when I was younger and prettier and stupid with innocence.

All My Thoughts, Shane. X

Darren said...

hi shane. i think i agree that this is one of the best pieces you've put up in a while, but i also see its much different to your longer posts and they can't really be compared because they do two different things. like you couldn't really use this style of writing to relate a proper non-fictional event like your recent domestic violence post. it'd take too much away from the events. as you said, some writing is stylistic and some is purely to relate an event, but the thing is, your stylistic pieces are to me like your catwalk, the place where you really let loose with all your poetry and style, and your more conventional tales is that style tamed to fit an audience. would you agree? either way any thing you write is totally of your hand and i for one cannot think of any other writer that you are similar too (in style or voice). daz

nikita said...

The most SIC!(K) piece I heard from you ever. Entering my mind as smoothly and kicking as strong as the decent dope enters you while you're... SICK.(sic!)

Best regards to you
Jowita/nikita

Khris Killer said...

Sick...not yet but soon. I am a Canadian in London on Vacation with a days worth of gear left and I just got ripped of for 60 pounds. Sick. I dont know this city or where to score. Sick. IM not trying to hook up here...I just wanted to whine and feel sorry for myself to people who I know can relate. Sick. What a life we choose. Very sick. This is gonna get messy as I really get...sick. My birthday is in 13 days. hahahhahahaa...really. fucking.SICK.

Khris K.

PS Been a while Shane. Good to read your words again. Ill be in France in a week. Who knows...maybe our paths will cross. Anyway, keep up the cries of the self cursed. We all hear, we all share.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Hey Darren, yeah I would agree with what you say and certainly my pieces of poetry are the catwalks I use to parade an exaggeration of style which you just can't do (and keep a reader) over pages of text. So short, quick pieces which are heavily stylized will always get the acclaim over ten pages of story which fluctuates and leads up ton certain moments. But many readers don't analyse why or why not they like some pieces above others and automatically think it's because one piece is of a higher quality or you're off your game at times. A 3 minute song and a 3 hour opera are two different things and you can't compare the two. I enjoy writing both ways and will continue to do so. The shorter pieces I post when I feel the readers need a break from five or ten page posts.... the smaller posts are also much more accessible and offer something else.

All My Thoughts, Shane. X

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

hey Nikita.... oh this post is tame compared to a many of my fictional pieces and short stories. I try hard not to turn this place into a shock-fest as that plays up to a certain idea of addiction which is mostly myth. But some sick things do arrive in this life of addiction and I've seen enough of them to know that this business of sticking yourself with syringes can also lead to some pretty dark places and messy apartments and disgusting habits. I'm never afraid to write what has happened... we can all have a bad week!!! Hahaha

XXX

Bee said...

Well now, thank you for your answer it's a little bit cryptic but anyhow I wasn't living underneath you so I'll stop worrying.
I really enjoy your writing. There have been more than a fair share of writers and tellers of tales in my family (not me-well the writing part anyway) and it is true that some "nice sentences" compensate for (metaphorical (sp)) shit leaks.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

hey Khris, thanks for reading and commenting. X

Fuck, that doesn't sound like too great a place you're in, but don't worry... if you're n London and you've money heroin is an easy thing to find (though you do need to be careful). Go to a needle exchange and hang around for a while. Find someone who looks reasonably stable and ask them to score for you. Offer them £20 quid to score and give you the number. If they refuse to give the number, kill the deal (most will concede and give you what you want when two free bags are gonna pass them by). Any bollocks about they can't introduce you to their 'man', or 'he's paranoid and will only meet me alone' , again kill the deal. If the person scoring really knows their dealer then the dealer will have no problems with them introducing a 'good friend' and passing on his number (and you'll need the number for the next days or you'll have to pay £20 extra EVERY time).You've already been ripped off for £60 so £20 for heroin and a number is a good deal. If you try to score without paying for an itro you'll most likely get robbed again. I've cold scored many times and in many different cities and you just need to be strong and let it be known you know the game and will not be played. During one two week period in west London I went around buying junkies a bag in order to get as many different numbers as I could... I ended up with over 20 different dealers and didn't get ripped off once. Just thank God you're in London... there's no better place to be sick!

All My best Shane. X

ps: if you're coming to france you'd better arrange some substitution as the gear here will not hold an addict coming off the back of UK junk. ... and it is seriously hard to score here.

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...

Have I replied to everyone? I'm getting real lazy with my scroll button...it seems so much effort. X

Gledwood said...

Only thing you can do to cure lifesickness is take more and more heroin and look where that gets you! "Sick and tired of being sick and tired"... It's a virtual circle of depravity...

Khris K. said...

Thanks Shane! Your tips worked great! In France now but got enough in London to keep me going. Hope all is well and France is a crazy beautiful country.

All the best Khris.

Alexandra Cohen said...

Hi Shane and sorry it took me so long to reply - I was thinking about what you said. I guess my problem is I don't really have any reassuring philosophy, I don't believe there is any big plan for humanity or god or other big reason for our living. People just get born, live and then die because it's just so. Not very fun worldview but I just can't imagine any other way.

Anonymous said...

I grew up with nothing and now I have something. I should be happier but I'm not. Reading this makes me feel better. I may even sleep.