As J and I bring you continuing stories of our riveting adventures in mind-altering substances, I figure a bit of insight into our mental states may be of interest. So, following J’s lead, I present you with the story of my abuses and how they came to where they are today.
Disclaimer - I’m also a sex addict.
My family moved around a little bit when I was younger. I was born in one state, moved to another before preschool, then moved to another before first grade. When I turned sixteen, though, my family moved again. I was irritated, despite my severe misanthropy and status as a possible sociopath, I had some ties to the town in which I had spent ten years of my life. In this new town, my abuse really began. Let’s first address the fucking. I’ve been a bit too fond of the whole orgasm thing. For as long as I can recall. Of course, it really took off when I figured out internet porn. And then, at 17, I made a pretty major decision. I met a girl, online. We talked for a while, we clicked. Talking was enjoyable. I’d been alone in this new town for almost a year, the contact was pleasant. It made me happy. Things got more and more serious, until one day, she came to visit. This wasn’t a two hour drive, she drove halfway across the country to see me. Then, we had weird, passionate sex in a hotel room for two straight days. I definitely learned a few things. For one, my stamina was way better than I anticipated. And I’m good at foreplay. And vagina is delicious. Also, buttplugs are wonderful. It wasn’t just sex, but I’m a little dead inside and expressing the exact nature of my attraction and desire is challenging to do in a way that isn’t excessively sentimental or incredibly shallow. So my attempt to strike a balance follows thusly: There was love, there was naivete, and there was libido. She accepted, and was even interested in, all of my kinks and fetishes. Despite good intentions and promises, that turned out to be our only visit. That relationship ended. I came to understand that long distance relationships are, quite often, misguided. Put simply, people change. Drifts will happen, and the distance will exacerbate them. But enough of that.
Rewind a bit. Just before I left my old home, J offered me a parting gift. Weeeeeeeeeeeed. It was my first time smoking. I was interested, but not quite hooked from that experience. Over my next few visits with J, I smoked more and more weed. Now, before I ever began smoking, I set limits for myself. Based on some arbitrary pointing of the remnants of my moral compass, I told myself I’d never do anything but smoke. No pills, no powders, nothing but marijuana. Then came this year. I started experimenting with pills. Soon I was stealing them from my parents, buying them from people. Yeah, I don’t exactly get to make that “Weed isn’t a gateway drug” argument. My moral line vanished, and reappeared far away, only barring things such as crack and crystal meth. I bought a vaporizer, started smoking in my house, getting blazed before classes and for family events. In the last two months, since I bought this vaporizer, I’ve smoked my way through around 300$ of weed. Which, you know, makes me wonder about how fiscally irresponsible this habit is.
Now we come to the motivations. I pop pills. I smoke plants. I’d stick my dick in a warm toaster. Put simply, life has no appeal to me without these things (Mathematics is also a pillar of my existence, but that’s another story). Without drugs and sex to consign my mind to oblivion, life is drab. Dull. Boring. Without my vices, I don’t have reasons to remain on this warm, green earth. Happiness is a warm gun, my friends. So fuck it. I’d rather die happy at thirty than slowly fade away in a nursing home at eighty years of age. It’s not about dying with dignity. I just want to be happy.