Everyone! Welcome! Please, scooch in close; I’m a little weak these days, and it’s hard for me to shout. Welcome! Did I say that already? I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little out of it.
Welcome! That one was intentional, guys. Old friends, new friends, you vagrants who’ve wandered in, I’d like to welcome you all to my first-ever relapse party. A year ago, I wouldn’t have even thought about throwing a get-together like this. Being a successful stockbroker on the up and up, with a loving wife and two kids, I didn’t even have the time to think about one of these! I’ve got to give to my good friend and once-more dealer Diamond Bill, though. Between scoping out this filthy abandoned warehouse, calling up all of the contacts in my cellphone after he stole it from me at knifepoint during a strung-out frenzy, and commissioning the ice sculpture, Bill’s been there for me every step of the way. Heck, if it weren’t for Diamond, I’d still be punching in and punching out, part of the same hum-drum 9 to 5 rat race as just another working stiff instead of sharing a needle of skag with a tattooed Samoan whose fingernails are almost as yellow as his teeth!
It’s been a real wild ride for me, and for all of you, too. Back in ’96 I had managed to scrape together what was left of my life through sheer force of will, mastering the smack addiction that had all but consumed my life since I dropped out of high school and which had nearly killed me on numerous occasions. The withdrawal symptoms practically drove me to suicide, and for months afterward I couldn’t hold my hands steady no matter how hard I tried. Talk about a Nervous Nelly! But when I felt like giving up, I found a new addiction, one you can’t heat in a spoon and inject between your toes: love. Love for my wife Nicole, who held my hand when I was sweating and trembling on the floor, who cleaned me up when I was too weak to even make it to the bathroom, and who took our two sons and up and left after I crucified our cat, Commodore Cute, while doped up on china white.
I know you all have your theories about what drove me back to chasing the dragon. “Oh, after AIG tanked and his retirement funds went out the window, he had nothing left to live for.” That’s a popular one. There’s also “I heard his wife was sleeping with their attorney, and had been on and off for six years prior to his finding out,” and my personal favorite, “He was finally eaten from the inside out by guilt over that hit-and-run he never told anyone about, the inescapable memory of those glazed, lifeless eyes staring back at his in a grim mockery of humanity as hot blood from the sad sack of flesh washed over his windshield just as it stained his hands forever more gnawing, gnawing, gnawing away at the frayed remains of his sanity until there was nothing left to consume.”
Geez! Can you say “overthinking”? No, it was Diamond Bill, again, who really came through for me. After dogging me for years as I walked home from work, a walking testament to my tragic past, he said something just a few weeks ago that really got me thinking: “You only live once.” You only live once? Then hell, why deny myself any longer the sweet embrace of oblivion that only a hot syringe of mexican horse can provide?
So here we are, three weeks later, and you know what? It’s been a real trip. But enough of my yammering, right? We’re at a party! Junkies, talk to the brokers, they’re a real smart bunch and you could learn a thing or two. Brokers, talk to the junkies and loosen up a bit, am I right? We’ve got Doritos and Chex mix over there by the table saw, and the punch just might be spiked with a little something! Oh, and don’t let me forget: Diamond has graciously provided all the “brown sugar” a guy could want, so feel free to shake and bake!
Now, let’s all have us some good, clean fun!