Degeneration XYZ: The Born Again
Someone once told me that life is what you make of it, what does that even really mean anymore? I felt compelled to tell this person to fuck off and reveal that life is not what you make of it but rather life is what others make of you. Let’s be honest with ourselves, we have the media force feeding us ways to improve our lives and bodies and we are more concerned as a society with what others think of us than what we really think of ourselves. I used to be one of those guys, but I found the truth in unpleasant ways and have since then focussed on my own happiness. To be completely honest, other than this minor setback, (sitting here in this room with these people who use drugs as a scapegoat for their failures to a society that destined them to fail) my life has been good.
I was one of those middle ground kids in high school and college. You know the type that isn’t popular enough to finger bang a cheerleader but not too weird where I still had girlfriends and a social life. Did I always want to be there? No, not a chance, I wanted to be more popular and go to all the parties and fuck the hot girls. But I had my established role in this society. There is really only one way to go up the social ladder and that is for everyone else to think that you are better than them. Clothes, hair, body type, personality, money and of course sex are the tools to achieve this. Seems stupid as fuck to look back as an adult on those lame practices right? Too bad nothing changes after you wear that gown and get that piece of rolled up paper declaring you are able to function in society. No, unfortunately adulthood is just as fucked with the societal spectrum, only difference is, is that more politeness is used when degrading each other. Improving yourself really means doing the wrong things and hurting people along the way, but hey that’s just how life is, some people will shit on you and others will wipe the shit off of you.
After all these years of becoming a model citizen with my fancy education, student loans, mortgage and credit bills I have still managed to end up in a dingy basement of a church, on a plastic chair, listening to sad saps whine about how life is cruel and how they got the short end of the stick. Like this chick right now, she was a total knockout in her youth, got old, and couldn’t cope. Now we all have to listen to her sad tale of having it all and now having nothing. I’m here listening to this broad because I was diagnosed with cancer and not the kind that you can whisk away with some treatments. I’m the one with terminal cancer that is just running rampant in my body, spreading quicker than this girl’s legs when tossed a $50 bill. I think I legitimately have something to complain about; after all I am fucking dying. But I keep quiet and to myself, also I’m generally high as fuck at these meetings.
The diagnosis was given to me 3 weeks after I started pissing blood. Being a stubborn male I waited that long to get checked out. There I am pissing blood and I know something is catastrophically wrong with my body but I couldn’t bring myself to a doctor because I knew that it would be serious and I’d probably die. I don’t need some guy fondling my balls to tell me I am sick, I can do that myself. But my parents found out and for the sake of my mother I went. As I predicted the diagnosis was: sick and dying. I feel like the 3 weeks of not going was enough to embed the idea into my mind that I am not here for much longer and having a doctor grab my nuts just confirmed it.
That diagnosis was 6 months ago, and let me tell you the last 6 months have been an incredible ride. I stopped caring about the societal norms and stopped following the moral rules of being a good person and just simply focussed on myself. I quit my job, I hated showing up to that place every day seeing the same faces, hearing the same stories about how retarded their kids were. That’s sometimes worse than doing actual work. I’d rather stay late at the office and bash my face into a monitor repeatedly than listen to a parent brag about their kid as if it is some accomplishment of their own. As if boasting that their child is superior they will automatically become superior in someone else’s eyes; which all relates back to life is really what others make of you. Anyways, I quit that wretched place in style, two middle fingers up my boss’ ass and I was out the door. In typical dying fashion I began to do all the things I had never done.
That’s why I am actually here now listening to some other broad pretend that she has been clean for a few weeks. None of us are “clean”; we are just here on court orders and will fake it to make it through. Looking around you see guys in suits fresh from work at their bank jobs, girls who you could tell were once those hot cheerleader beauty queen types and others who look like they rolled out of the gutter 5 minutes before the meeting. Then there is our leader, the soft spoken caring hero, the ring leader as I like to refer to him. Share your stories weekly with him and the courts believe that we will go home and never touch a drug or alcohol again. That makes as much sense as you never wanting to cum on your girlfriends face because your best friend already did it with his girl and shared the tale with you. Stupid government.
I got busted; well I shouldn’t say busted as I was blatantly doing lines of coke on a picnic table at a public park. I guess some folks at the park didn’t like me being around at their family reunion and offering their kids some “happy fun times energy nose sugar”. I actually offered some to my arresting officer as a gesture of my kindness. I could see his eyes glow as I offered but he knew he was getting my stash for after work regardless. It all won’t end up in the evidence room or on his report. I was by no means using coke as an escape method for my impending death, but it was a great fucking excuse to use on the judge to avoid jail time. Unfortunately though I have to show up here every Wednesday night and tell a tale about my previous week.
Well the group doesn’t know it, but this will be my last Wednesday. Time is up for me. It may not be for them though. I think this week I will try to reach out to at least one person and give them advice that I learned through my own death clock. When the ring leader calls upon me I won’t have a story as much as a cautionary tale to live life to a fuller extent than this piss and shit ridden existence in this basement. I want someone to hear my final thoughts.
“Isn't it kind of sad that when people have knowledge of their upcoming death they will do everything they dreamed of to enjoy their final days, but without that final time frame we all slave away doing things we hate. Here's a fact, all of our lives will end one day, so quit complaining about the things you hate and go out and do the things you love with the people you love to do things with. You have an expiry date and it comes quicker than you’ll ever realize. So live for you, not for someone else.”
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