The Fictional Diary of Andrew Lewis (4th Entry)

February 24, 2016

My last entry ended randomly, for after eight Klonopins and the high gravity six-pack, I passed out. I thought about finishing it, but it was the 23rd, and it is the 24th now. I have no desire to time travel back a day to finish. I let it be as it is.

I woke up hung over. I went out for a cigarette, finished it, and went inside to throw up. I felt better. I took five Percocets and went downstairs. Speed, even the pure Amphetamines I get from Teddy, have a terrible tolerance problem. I try to take breaks, but that rarely happens. I think for a moment, and come to the conclusion that the only governmental conspiracy theory, or at least the most important, is the neuro-production of raising personal tolerance. I’m not sure how they do this, or how they spread it, but it is a travesty of corruption. I think about writing the president, asking him to stop funding the tolerance program, but the truth would be false. I guess this makes it a lie. Pure truth from our politicians would have terrible repercussions, and may cause protests and riots, but it seems that we as people, or at least me, shouldn’t have to ask for pure transparency. This should be a given, but obviously it’s not. The opiates destroyed my hangover and make me feel good. I wrote another poem today, the poem about the squirrel. It was about a squirrel who make a collage out of acorns. But when winter came, the other squirrels stole all the acorns, making the furry collagist unhappy. It was meant to be a happy poem, but I thought it was unfair of the squirrel and decided to rewrite it later so he could keep his collage. I think he will be happy that I can change history, for art is strange and acorns are hard to come by. I had to submit an article to the paper by midnight, a final draft. I haven’t written anything, and when the opiates wear off I’ll take some major speed and draft out something for them. I need the two hundred dollars. This wasn’t freelance work, though. I am an employee of sorts, I guess. I just never go into the office because it’s drab, depressing and I see no reason to. Mann, the editor and publisher, hasn’t seemed to notice; that or he doesn’t care. As long I write him his piece, he’s happy. It’ll take me an hour, but I don’t know the subject. He told me and I wrote it down, but that note is long gone. So I think about what I want to write about. ‘Is Lou Reed Really Dead?’ became the title I have. I was once told to question everything, but I believe it’s a silly thing to say, for I would question everything anyways, including what he said. I don’t know if he meant it that intensely, but I gain pride and joy by knowing that nothing is certain and never will be. The speed I take all day could be a doorknob for all I know. I think of the absurdity of eating a doorknob, but it’s not completely out of the question. I got up and tried eating the doorknob into the kitchen, but it hurt my teeth.

Being a recluse that doesn’t have friends and spends most, if not all, of his time by himself can be strange. Social, human contact is the only way to be integrated into normalcy. It sounds awful. I, personally, have never been over the edge. I had a friend in High School that look bad LSD on a boat and was never the same. He went over the edge without a latter, thrown to the wolves of insanity. I, on the other hand, am at the foot of the cliff, looking down. I climb down sometimes, always with a latter, and walk around. What I find in irreversible insanity is interesting, but I take a couple steps back and breathe. Nothing down there is any better than what’s up here. I may have psychotic episodes with days, weeks, of extreme paranoia, but I know for a fact that I have not jumped the cliff. Maybe I should, I think to myself often. I slip in and out of my dissociated wonderland, and I enjoy this very much, but having the ability to slip out whenever desired is something that I hope will never go away. Things get weird when you deny any sociality, living in your mind and creating everything that constructs your existence. I guess this is why I became a writer. I don’t know, but I do know that even when I try to integrate myself into the external world, I know for a fact that I am, and will always, be on the outside. I can make friends and go to movies and work retail, I can do all this with a smile on my face, miserable and confused on the inside. It’s not that I don’t understand life, which I don’t at all, but I don’t understand how humans live a daily life without being completely confused all the time. When I dose myself with enough speed, I can become talkative and involve myself with one or more people, but that is because I’m high. And if I drink enough, I can go to a bar and talk to the people around me. Some people think that my addiction is terrible, a crutch, something I must overcome to live a happy and healthy life. But between the internal world I created for myself and the external world that dictates what you do throughout life — Every time I will chose drugs, writing, and insanity. Do we only live once? I sure hope so, but if not, then I’ll try the regular way of living in my next life.

The reason I go into full detail on this is because Mann, my publisher (I would say editor, but he has never really edited anything I’ve written. He scans what I send from my typewriter and puts it directly, as is, in the paper), the reason he still puts up with me is because he thinks that I see the world in a way that no one else has ever seen. I think he’s full of shit. I tell him so, and he laughs, thinking I’m just getting better. Mann is great because he pays me, but personally he freaks me out. He looks as if Five Guys created a burger called ‘Samuel Beckett’, that looked like Beckett but was a hamburger. And he smokes American Spirits, and brags about it every chance he gets. ‘All tobacco, nothing else’ he would say. ‘What do you smoke? Camels? Do you know how many chemicals are in those?’ His pretentiousness gets on my nerves. ‘Do you know how many chemicals I put into my body that doesn’t involve cigarettes? I’d fail a 12 panel drug test for ten of those chemicals. So let me smoke something that makes me feel better, something I can afford’. I don’t know if Mann understands that drugs cost money, and I have to produce at least three detective stories as well as his weekly but now monthly writing I do for the paper just to afford enough to have me feeling good at all times. Goddamn, this is why I hate opiates. They make me sentimental and corny. I used to shoot heroin, I did for 24 months. The writing I did during that period was good, but when coming up, I had to edit about 75% of the worlds I misspelt. Some of them I didn’t even know what I was trying to type. Things were great, but with all drugs, there are certain side effects, downsides that cannot be avoided. I cannot avoid the comedown concerning speed. But with heroin, you don’t comedown. You feel bored for a day or two, and holy shit the withdraws start. I won’t say more. I’m talking to myself, and I know the feeling. So why bother explaining.

Technically it is tomorrow. Can today be tomorrow? Time doesn’t make any sense to me, so I don’t believe in it. A new day starts when I wake up. And on a three day speed binge, it’s not really three days but one long day. I think, but I don’t know, I can ask my brother’s cat. I do. ‘Meow’ is his response, and it doesn’t make any more sense. It is 2:00 in the morning. I redosed at 8:00pm last night, so I take five Klonopins and drink the last of my two beers. 9%, but it’s not enough. I want to get drunk, but since that isn’t possible, I get high off benzos. The alcohol helps the effect, and hopefully I can sleep soon. I think of that bird and that squirrel, and I think of other poems to write. I don’t get paid for my poems, and no one reads them, but I’m forced, slaved, to the process of poetry. Two years ago, I wanted companionship, but now I want to be left alone. I think of going out, but I’m sure I’d get arrested again. This doesn’t bother me, but I have a feeling that messy man that bailed me out, who is now demanding money I don’t have, wouldn’t bother picking me up. I think about leaving town. I can’t imagine anything good in Cleveland, so I come up with the cost it would take me to get there. I would need to bulk on speed, but Freddy is a strange man. A chemist and a dealer. But he knows me, and will front me two hundred worth of speed. I think about doing this and never paying him back, but the obviousness of never finding a strange chemist that concocts his own, pure amphetamines is too real, especially in Cleveland. Nothing good is in that city. So after the front, it will not be too much money to make the trip. I start packing, but the Klonopin kicks in and I stop. Am I stuck in D.C.? Is there some outside force that is keeping me here? Men in sunglasses that follow my every move, keeping me in this godforsaken city. Maybe they could lend me a ten or so, but they are hard to find. The two beers are making me angry, for I want more but am unable to afford anything else. It’s 2:25am, and they have stopped selling beer at gas stations, or at least until 6:00am. I try to forget about the beer and think of hound dogs. They are weird animals, but their ears make me happy. I wonder how a hound dog would do with my brother’s cat. Can they speak the same language? Is there a universal animal language that I, as nothing but a human, can never understand. If so, I find this unfair, for humans are animals too. I look at my brother’s cat, that is sitting on top of Iggy Pop, and meow at him. He looks at me with a glazed, confused look. ‘At least I tried’, I say. ‘The least you can do is speak for a second, any work, just as a test’. Nothing happens, and I feel like an idiot, which is wonderful, because that is the album that he is sitting on. I haven’t played with him enough, so he does extracurricular activities. He turns the record player on, which is a Neutral Milk Hotel album, Aeroplane, and turns into DJ cat, where he remixes Jeff’s songs. At first I am upset, but he does a wonderful stop and turn, and I realize that my brother’s cat is an actual DJ. I feel good for him, and think of ways to expand his art. But first, I need to expand my heart. I write for a national paper, and that pays well, but only once a month. It used to be weekly, but the paper is poor. The detective stories pay almost nothing, but enough for beer and cigarettes. I think of things that I can do to make more money. I can’t be a chemist, I know that, for I fucked that chance up. So I decide to be Monet. I wonder how many people know he’s dead, and figure that I can pull it off, as long as I don’t paint anything. I give it a trial run, so I call Daniel, from long ago. He answers with a grumpy voice. ‘It’s almost 3:00 in the morning, who the fuck is this?’ ‘Claude’, I answer. I don’t know where Monet is from. France? Should I do a french accent? ‘You have the wrong number’, he replies. Before he hangs up I try one last time. ‘I am Claude Monet. The painter. I’m famous.’ He hangs up and I think about whether he bought it or not. I decide not to be Monet. I wouldn’t want someone being Andrew Lewis, and there has to be some respect somewhere. I realize that I’m two hours late on my article for the paper; I haven’t written anything, so I take four capsules of speed, almost too much, and wait for the ride to begin. I take Jeff Magnum out of the record player and think of what to put on. I know I can’t put on Iggy Pop’s ‘The Idiot’ because my cat has fallen asleep on it. There are a lot of good albums to listen to on speed. I once tried making a list, but decided it would take too long. But out of everything I’ve listened to, the best, the one that singles into the receptors in my brain and parties, is Violent Femme’s ‘Why Do Birds Sing’. So I listen to Tom Waits, ironically, as I wait for the speed to kick in, thinking of what to write. I look around the room. I could write how the members of ISIS are actually vegan and are in constant contact with PITA. But I don’t have anything to cite it with. Something catches my eyes, which are hardly working. Two albums, one sitting out that my brother was listening to, and the other in the crate, just barely visible. My brother was listening to David Bowie. I see, in the crate, Lou Reed’s ‘Berlin’. The world went crazy at the death of Bowie, and tributes are still being made at this very moment. But only few talked about the death of Lou Reed. Bowie’s impact on society was wonderful; even the Republicans became glam rockers (Rick Santorum still has his eye-liner-glitter combo). But musically, Lou Reed did more than most, if not all, of the influencing of that time. The Velvet Underground was revolutionary, and created the distorted sound that was only heard after the fact, by other’s who copied them. But his solo stuff confirmed that he was The Velvet Underground. And after gaining popularity through his solo albums, he came out with his opus, ‘Berlin’. It was hated by everyone. The slow wave of two capsules is an incredible feeling, but the four created a crash, and I stood right up. I looked around the room, and decided that before I die, I will take advantage of the small trampoline. I go over and jump on it, but fall backwards. I hope Rifi enjoys this when I die. I look around for a moment and finally find my typewriter. I begin to write: What’s more important for a musician? A social influence or a genius music career that will live on forever? Yes, Bowie’s music is incredible, but the impact that Lou Reed made is undeniably more important. So I write about how the media and society pick certain people, and when those people die, the mourning process is long and exaggerated. But those not in the spotlight, where is their memorial? Why didn’t Lady Gaga sing ‘Satellite Of Love’ with black eyeliner on? This is personal, but I write it anyways. Five pages in ten minutes. Beautiful. I call Mann, even though it is 3:45am. He will answer, probably because he thinks somebody has just died. ‘Who died?’ he says after three rings. ‘Lou Reed’. I explain to him that I am four hours late, and could I drive to the office and drop it off. ‘You, in the office?’ ‘I’ve always wanted to see where I work, but I’d love for you to come and pick it up’. There was a pause. ‘Right now?’ I told him yes, and he thought more. ‘What’s it about?’ ‘Hound dogs. Will you come?’ After a while, we decided that instead of going downtown to the office, I’d take it to his house. So I grab my backpack full of drugs, uppers and downers, and this is where the entry stops. It’s been fifteen minutes since I’ve talked to Mann, fifteen minutes writing this for you, my diary. But now I need to go and visit Mann. Before I leave, I have last doubts about my article. I should have written about hound dogs. I like their ears.


The Fictional Diary of Andrew Lewis (3rd Entry)

February 23, 2016

It’s 8:20 in the morning, and I’m still drunk from last night. I was drinking a double IPA. If I drank more responsibly, then I’d be a hop head. There are just too many PBR nights (Nothing against Pabst), so I drink what’s available. Last night’s beer was a craft IPA that had 9% abv, so that made things better, quicker. Hophash is now out, but only in 12-packs, and it’s twenty bucks, so I skipped it. Not that I have anything against Bell’s best beer, but money is becoming an issue; I stick to high gravity beers that are under eleven bucks, usually a double or triple IPA. But PBR is always there, for I don’t particularly care. I begin to write this, but I’m having trouble spelling simple words. Luckily it is the morning of the 23rd, and I have all day to wake up, even if it is with strong speed. We’ll see, but for right now, I must stop writing. It’s just too hard. Note to Andrew: Please edit the spelling errors. There are just too many.

5:30pm, my phone says. After I finished writing that last bit of this new entry, which was an clearly a bad attempt, I took five Klonopins and fell asleep. I woke up at 2:00pm. I know this because I had my phone, but if I didn’t have my phone, I’d still know it was 2:00pm. I just know things like that. I stood up and realized that the combination of alcohol and benzodiazepines, regardless of the half-life, still had me feeling relaxed, good, and still high. I passed out downstairs the night before, so I looked through my records. I picked up Leonard Cohen and brought it upstairs, where my record player still was. I put the record on and laid on the couch, singing Bird on a Wire as loud as I could. After the first side of the album was done, I went outside to smoke. I was groggy. A police officer was walking the neighborhood, looking confused. I thought that maybe he lost his cat, or was trying to find a lost container of Campho-Phenique. I thought about helping him until he came to my door. He asked me if this was 10472. I said no. ‘It says it is on your door’. ‘Then I guess it is’. There was a noise complaint, and the officer was here to check and see if everything was alright. I asked him if he liked Leonard Cohen. He said ‘Who?’, and I left it at that. He told me to keep it down. This made me sad, because I find it impossible to listen to Bird on a Wire without singing, or screaming, very loudly. So the cop left, unaware that I would never listen to my favorite song again. Cops do a lot of terrible things, but denying a person Leonard Cohen is brutal. I don’t like cops, but this is my least favorite cop, and I don’t even know his name. Then I noticed that I was more sleepy than high, and I thought about redosing on the Klonopin, but decided against it. I took two capsules of speed and fell asleep on the couch, knowing that I would wake up feeling great very soon. While waiting for the effects to kick in, I thought about writing another poem. The last one, the poem about the bird that refused to fly, made me happy. So I thought about things that make me happy while my eyes were closing, waiting for that first signal of euphoria. It took longer than I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure what external things, excluding drugs, made me happy. Furry animals do; squirrels mostly. And Koalas. Would it be bad to write another poem about an animal, I thought, but then again, no one really reads my poems. So I think of a poem about a squirrel and the things I can write about . . . and then the amphetamines kick in, and I stand up. I realize I have no beer. I thought of calling Rifi, asking him to pick me up a six-pack if he passes a gas station. I decided against it, but reconsider and call anyways. ‘Mr. Lewis’, he says. He is my personal driver. But Rifi is a person, and a driver, so I guess he is a personal driver to all his customers. ‘Where are you, Rifi?’ I ask. ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes’. I think about letting him come and just taking a taxi to get beer, but I don’t want to spend the money. ‘No, Rifi’, I respond. When talking to him, it always sounds as if there is a GOP conference that finally allowed a bear to attend in the background, so I yell. He doesn’t notice; just saying the occasional ‘What?’ when I’m drunk or on some substance and things get weird. ‘No, Rifi, I mean where are you right now? I don’t need a lift’. ‘It is the 23rd’. I am actually happy he responded that way. Expectations are wonderful, and now I know I can call if I need to know date. And the day, hopefully, because I get Tuesday and Wednesday mixed up, something I cannot imagine mastering until I finally die, if I die. I don’t know, it hasn’t happened yet, so I’m not convinced that death is inevitable. I can always tell when it’s 2:00pm, though. ‘Thank you, Rifi, but . . . actually, are you near a gas station?’ ‘You need gas?’ I think for a moment whether I need gas, but I have nothing to do with it, so I assume I don’t. ‘I need beer. If you can pick me up a six-pack of something with a high alcohol level and bring it to me, I’ll pay the fare and compensate’ He laughs that terrible laugh and tells me it’ll be thirty minutes. I realize that I can wait thirty minutes, so I agree. Rifi is great, and I think of calling him my friend, but I decided not to, not until he changes that god awful laugh. I start to do some chores, but the idea sounds awful, so I stop. This house, a three story town house, is a lot of work. But I live here with my brother, who is out of town, and we generally only use one room. The cat uses two, but I can never find out what that other room is. I guess this information is for the cat; it’s not a human thing. I go downstairs and think of things I could do. This makes me think of what I am capable of doing, which in turn makes me think of all the things I can’t do. I know I can’t be a chemist, because I fell asleep in Professor’s class. I know I cannot make an advertisement for used cars, or kitchen appliances, because I’m not a graphic designer and I don’t know how to use Paint. So I look at my brother’s bookshelf. I can read, so I decide that I will read. I look at several books: ‘Woman’ by Philippe Sollers, ‘Venus in Furs’ by Sacher-Masoch. ‘The Deep’ by Mickey Spillane. A book on Man Ray and Godard. None of these seem right, though with the speed I just took, I’d read anything with full interest. I decide on ‘House of Incest’ by Anais Nin. There are pictures, and this pleases me.

9:30pm, unless Rifi is a compulsive liar, which I’ve suspected but was never convinced. He did bring me my beer, though. I invited him in for a beer, maybe a bowl of marijuana, but he declines. I wonder why, and think that it may be a religious thing. I think it has more to do with Rifi being an adult that drove random people to random places for a living. So I thank him and give him a ten dollar bill. I know this doesn’t cover the cost, but he’s a good man and didn’t say anything. Inside, I open the beer and begin to drink. Steel Reserve 2-11. I laugh at Rifi’s bad taste in beer, but I drink the malt liquor with pride. The great thing about beer is that even the shittiest of beers begin to taste good after two or three. This was not the case with Steel Reserve, but I enjoy the alcohol and think to myself how grateful I am to have a personal driver and now a delivery man. I wonder if there was anything Rifi would not do for me, so I write my will, leaving everything I own to this man. He may be disappointed in the lack of items I have. But I think he will enjoy the small trampoline. It’s for exercise, but it’s also just fun, and exercising isn’t. I smoke too much to work out, but the speed counteracts that, and I become able to work out. I just decide not to, because there is nothing in exercise that gives me anything I’d consider pleasing; the entire system is flawed by the fact that it is a terrible activity. The flaw is a personal flaw, but if there is no such thing as other people, then it becomes universal. But I did see Rifi today, so if he enjoys exercising it becomes a 50/50 flaw. I hope he does, because when I die, the trampoline will personally become his. The reason I have so little items is because I am a traveler, or used to be. I hitchhiked from Florida to Maryland, realized that I didn’t want to go to New York, for it sounds awful, so I headed to D.C. This is the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place. D.C. is also an awful city, but the house is wonderful, so I stayed. It’s an old house that belonged to my mother, who is in Africa doing African things, like making wicker baskets and balancing it on her head. It was supposed to be a week trip, but she decided to stay. This made me happy, for her house became my house, regardless of the fact that she still pays the rent. This used to make me uncomfortable and lazy, but my mother has money to live as well as expendable money. Me, on the other hand, I get paid on a bizarre, erratic basis. I have a contract to write for a national paper, and I make other money doing side writings for detective magazines. This gives me enough money for beer, cigarettes and fun substances. These substances usually isolate and include speed, but I also buy pot. This city is known for its PCP. Dippers, they call them, because they dip a cigarette in the drug, let it dry, and sell it. I hate PCP, but I do it sporadically to challenge my perception of the world, usually in a bad way. But any change in a person’s existence and consciousness is necessary in becoming a strange and absurd thinker. These are the best philosophers: the ones who have been in another alternative plane and can truly look at the world as it isn’t. Getting back to the point. After I drank most of the shitty beer, I redosed with my beloved speed. I usually would want to just get wasted, but I had things to do. After an hour, feeling wonderful, I look at myself in the mirror. The person I’m looking at doesn’t speak, but rationally that makes sense. Is that really me? I stare longer, and imagine what this man would say. ‘Get a haircut’. So I decide to get a haircut. The place I go is walkable, so I begin to walk. It was cold outside, wet but not raining. I chain-smoke for twenty minutes, four cigarettes, and walk into the barber shop. I ask if I can smoke. ‘No, but I can wash your hair’. I cave into the deal and this Filipino woman begins to wash my hair. The feel of the water on my head makes me uncomfortable for a moment, for speed freaks hate getting wet, but then I begin to relax. I ask her about Peter, Paul and Mary, and if one had died. ‘I don’t know, but I can cut your hair’. It’s not a fair deal, but I feel as if I have no choice in the matter. She asked me how I wanted my hair cut. I thought for a moment. I couldn’t ask for a Marxist cut, for only true Marxists have big beards. Maybe I’ll go it out and come back in a year. But I’m not a Marxist, so I forget the idea. I’m usually drunk and ask them to use the buzzer because, fuck it, I didn’t care, But the speed I took is incredible and making me think of all the different people my hair could look like. John Cusack, for instance. Lon Chaney would suffice. ‘Have you ever been to a Red Robin?’ She looks at me for a moment, and shakes her head yes. ‘I want my hair to look like you walked into a Red Robin and saw a waiter, just one that isn’t a bigot. I want his hair’. There was complete comprehension and understanding, and she began. Afterwards, she asked what I thought. ‘I’ve never been to a Red Robin’, and I stood up and paid her. The cut was eighteen, plus the three dollar tip I gave her. She thanked me. Was she sincere? If I would have given her a fifty-cent tip, would she have thanked me anyways. This made me feel strange and I wondered if three dollars was worth a true thanks, or was she just being nice? Before I left, I counted the money I had with me. It was enough for beer and cigarettes, so I quit thinking about this woman’s sincerity and started walking towards the 7-11 on my way home. I bought my beer, the same from last night (or was it the other? Has the revolution of days changed to something shorter, longer, and if so, why didn’t anyone tell me. Was yesterday three days ago?) and a pack of Camels. In the city, cigarettes are very expensive. This is why, when I decide to drive, I go see the Jamaican. Seven dollars for a pack of Camels. The lights are cheaper, but I hate lights. Anyone I meet, regardless of their attraction, if they smoke light cigarettes, I immediately distrust them. I’m pretty sure the fascists in Italy, including Mussolini, smoked light cigarettes. I think about becoming a fascist purely for their cost-effective ways. But my distrust for light cigarettes is too strong, so I deal with expensive, partly shitty cigarettes that I’ve learned to love the taste over time, years. I come to this place on average every other day, yet they still ask for my ID. My license is expired, and the bastards think that is a reason for denying me my addiction. So I use my passport, which I now use for any identification reasons, and this suffices. I have a passport because I took a trip to West Africa. I spend three days there. Some man told me to use a repellant to avoid West Nile. I’ve never gotten West Nile, so I don’t believe it is real. The man was obviously working for a rebel army whose goal is to douse the people with repellant. My last day in West Africa, I saw my mother, whose appearance has changed . . .

The Fictional Diary of Andrew Lewis (2nd Entry)

It took me twenty minutes to find what date it was. I backtracked from my last entry and realized that I still didn’t know. So I called Rifi. He gave me the answer I needed.

February 22, 2016

After my speed binge, I decided to take a day and a half, I guess, to recompose. I seriously tried writing to you, my diary, yesterday, but I felt awful and nothing came out. I tried calming myself, but I was running out of Klonopin, so I mostly drank. This is effective, but not full-proof, so I laid on my couch, drunk but shaking. I knew exactly what had happened. I meant to get strung out, but instead I went into a stage that only true tweakers know of. In my recovery, laying on my couch, I tried calming myself with music. Build To Spill released a new album, and I had yet to open it and put it on. So with all the strength I had in me, I brought the record and the record player from the basement to the living room. But I immediately regretted this decision, for it wasn’t the right album for a tweaker coming down to listen to. I kept it on and pretended I was a music theorist for Rolling Stone and tried critiquing the notes, comparing it to any of their older albums. I knew that it was a good album, but I was so out of it that I couldn’t decided whether it was a great album (I recently was able to confirm that, yes, it is). So I turned it off. I remember thinking of the perfect album to put on in times like those, because I had it in me to make one trip down the stairs and up again. Anything I picked, I would have to deal with. The immense pressure got to me, and I opened another beer. It was slightly warm from sitting by the couch all day, but that didn’t bother me. Thankfully I had enough beer and cigarettes to last me the night, for I could not bare to see the outside world. I tried hard to convince myself that there was no outside world, that my world was the universe, but I became overly existential. If the outside world did not exist, neither did the band Built To Spill, therefore I was Built To Spill, and that was my album. I liked this thought and stayed in my dissociated, psychotic state for a couple of hours, thinking of all the things that I was. I was the Prime Minister of Britain, I was the Harlem Shout, I was the Chemist that creates mind altering drugs, I was not only James Dean, but I was James Dean’s character in Rebel. I wrote Infinite Jest and I created potatoes. Everything in my house I was, and everything I didn’t have I wasn’t. I started thinking about all the things I didn’t have, therefore was not. I didn’t like this thought, so I returned to reality. It wasn’t much better, but it was familiar. My brother’s cat came up to talk to me, for my brother was out of town. This brightened my mood, but cats don’t talk, so he only meowed. It was still better than nothing. My brother’s cat is a mane coon. I have yet to figure out how I feel about this, and my confusion confuses me. It probably has something to do with it being a black cat. I thought about writing to some Cat Association, or Webster, asking them to change the spelling of ‘mane’ to ‘main’. If you’re forced to be called a coon to your face, you might as well be the main coon. I told all of this to him, but he didn’t understand because cats can’t speak and hear human. He meowed, but I didn’t know what he was trying to say, for I am human and cannot speak or hear cat. This is what I subjected my entire day to. At the time I didn’t know the date, but it was the 21st. I know this because I called Rifi today.

I thought about going into my past, where I came from and what I did as a small person, but then I remembered that this is a diary, not a memoir. I wouldn’t be able to do a memoir, regardless. I really don’t remember much of my childhood, and sometimes I think that it didn’t exist. I remember hearing a story about a certain type of fly that only lives for seventeen seconds. I doubt this is true, but it astounds me, so I take it as truth. I imagine how weird that fly’s life must be. As humans, we come into perception slowly, which integrates us into a strange life that we will be forced to live. But this fly goes from nothingness to full awareness in a tangent of a second, and how strange it must be to barely have time to stop freaking out and determine what the hell is going on before its seventeen seconds are up. I wish that I was this type of fly, but then I realize that I don’t. Either way, I will go back two years because I think it is important to understand my life as it is today, the 22nd. I remember that this is a diary and that I am explaining this to no one, but I feel the importance to do it anyways. I had a family member, two years ago, that told me I couldn’t be a writer and I have to come up with another career. So I stopped writing and thought about what I wanted to do with my life. I gave up after five minutes and picked chemistry out of the blue, mainly because I was a romantic and wanted to have chemistry with another person at least once. So I drank a six-pack and snuck into the University downtown. I fit right in, but I felt as if I stuck out. I had no identification or proof that I belonged there, and I feared of being deported back into a world of meaning. But Immigration was nowhere in sight. I talked to a couple of people, trying to find out where to go to become a chemist. They directed me towards a student center, and after some mumbling and lying, I found out that there was an advanced chemistry class that started in thirty minutes upstairs in room 502F. I asked the student at the desk if there was a bar on campus, but she was too concerned with her phone. It must have been important, so I left. I stumbled into room 502F with ten minutes left before the class started. It was a small class with a big chalkboard that filled an entire wall. In the back were tables and instruments that I couldn’t identify, which made me glad I was in a chemistry class and about to become a chemist. There were twenty or so students doing various things with backpacks and folders, and it made me happy I brought my backpack. I looked inside, but all I had was an eighth of pot, a bowl, a bag of cocaine and a writing pad. I was concerned about removing the wrong item, but I chose the writing pad. This made me feel sad, because I wasn’t a writer anymore. I had no instrument to write with, but that didn’t bother me. I knew if I listened hard enough, I would become a chemist. It may take longer, but I had the time. The teacher came in and began talking to the class as if they were old friends. He looked at me and stopped. ‘And you are?’ he said, or something like that. I didn’t know what I was, but I knew I wasn’t a chemist, not yet, so I told him that. He liked this. He asked my name and I told him. I thought of asking his name, but decided against it. He went to his desk, a small shabby one in the far corner of the room. After a couple of minutes, he came back to where I was. He told me I wasn’t on the list. ‘I know’, I said. ‘I don’t like being on lists’. He laughed again, and I decided that I liked him, even though I wasn’t joking. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel as if you get your name on a list, any list, that regardless of where that list goes, even if it is destroyed, you will still be permanently listed for eternity. I never liked that idea, and I avoid lists at all costs. The professor asked if I belonged in that classroom. ‘I want to be a chemist, so I assume so.’ This seemed enough for him, and he began his class. Ten minutes into being lost in his complicated words, I blacked out. Or passed out, I can’t remember. I do remember a hand on my shoulder, the class being over, the professor over me. I was upset, because I fell asleep and didn’t become a chemist. But the hand on my shoulder was gentle, and he looked as if he wasn’t in a rush. I apologized, but he shook that off. ‘You smell like alcohol’, he said, smiling. ‘I have some bourbon in my desk. Want to have a drink with me?’ I happily accepted, and we went to his small desk. He pulled up two chairs, brought out two glasses and the fifth, and explained that he didn’t have another class for an hour and a half. He asked me what we should toast to, and I said Kim Deal. So we toasted to Kim and drank our bourbon, which was a double. Afterwards, I held my breath, because I knew what was coming. And it came. ‘So what are you doing here, in my class?’ Understand, this was two years ago and the dialogue I’m using is subjective to my memory, which is not one to brag about. ‘I was a writer, but someone told me I couldn’t be. So I thought I’d become a chemist’. This was before I knew his name, and I referred to him simply as professor. He liked this, and held off telling me his name. I was never trying to be funny, but he laughed a lot when I spoke, and this made me feel comfortable. ‘Why can’t you be a writer?’ he said. ‘I don’t know, someone I know just decided that I couldn’t be’. He thought that was ridiculous, and asked about my writing. I hate this question; people expect that writing can be categorized into small, different compartments. Some do compartmentalize, but I always assumed that if you wrote anything, you were simply a writer. I thought of how to respond, and I told him that I tell stories. He began listing things, waiting for an answer, things like ‘poetry?’ ‘journalism?’ short stories?’ ‘novels?’, and after every word, I responded by saying yes. I think he tried too hard to find an area of writing that I did not do. I don’t know why. When he got to ‘non-fiction’ I replied by saying ‘partially’. Real life can bore me, so I make stuff up. This answer was fine with him. But he stopped after a minute or two and asked if I wanted another drink. So we had our second double. My previous drunk wasn’t entirely gone, so I became even drunker. I thought about being embarrassed, afraid he’d think I was a lightweight, but I wasn’t embarrassed, so I stopped thinking about it. We sat in silence, and I thought it was about time I started talking. ‘You want a line of blow?’ He smiled. ‘I’m drunk and need some stability.’ I brought out the cocaine without waiting for an answer and cut up two big lines. I took one and held my hand in a position of offering. ‘I haven’t done this since college’. But this long interval didn’t phase him, and he pulled out a dollar bill and took the line. We looked at each other’s faces for five minutes without talking. He spoke first. ‘Another?’ He read my mind, and I cut up two more lines, bigger than the last, and we both railed them quickly. He began to mess with his jaw, and I wondered if I was messing with mine. ‘Why chemistry?’ he said. I thought for a moment how to explain the answer to this, but all I could think of was, ‘I’m a romantic’. ‘There is nothing romantic about this field. But do you know what is romantic? Drugs and writing. I think you should stop this bullshit and go back to writing.’ He said all this very quickly, but I understood. So at that moment, I quit my career as a chemist and became a writer once again. I felt better, for I knew little about chemistry, and I already knew how to write. At this time I felt very sociable, so I began to speak first, quickly as well. ‘I love cocaine, but the half-life is terrible. It makes me feel bad for the coke.’ Right now, on the 22nd, cocaine reminds me of the seventeen second fly, and I think the two are interchangeable. The professor, who finally told me to call him Philips, talked about other stimulants. We both came across one similarity — we loved speed. ‘I love speed’ he said. ‘I love speed too,’ I responded. I told him my only issue with the drug. ‘I love speed, but the pills they have out make me feel dirty. And I hate having to spend a lot of money for a handful of Adderall that I’ll take in one gulp.’ The reason, diary, I am telling you this story, is for what he said next: ‘I know a chemist in the city that makes his own, pure amphetamines. He puts them in these empty, thick capsules. These capsules make Benzedrine seem like a strong cup of coffee. You should go and pay him a visit’. He wrote me this man’s address and told me to tell the man, Teddy (though I still call him The Synthesizer in my head to this day) that I knew Professor Philips. I thanked him for this information from the heavens. We each did one more line of coke. Time had passed quickly. I thought for a moment, and gave the professor around a gram of weed and my pipe. ‘No, no, that’s too much’. But I had more pipes at the house. I told him that his college days were far in the past. ‘You probably forgot about the comedown. This will help’. He smiled as he walked me to the door. Before I could leave, he stopped me and looked me straight in the eyes. He told me if I ever quit writing again and desired to be a chemist, to feel free and drop by any time. ‘Please don’t put me on a list, though’. He laughed, and I hope he understood the seriousness of my demand. But somewhere in his kind smile, I knew he understood. Once you’re on a list, it’s forever. And I don’t want to be a chemist for the rest of my life. I left and went straight to see Teddy. This was two years ago. Today, the 22nd, is now. The two days have a connection, but they are not the same day.

Last night I took some heavy tranquilizers and actually got some sleep. I woke up, today, around 2:00pm, but I can’t be sure of that. I don’t have a clock, and my phone was somewhere else. It just felt like 2:00pm, so I guess it was. I ate a half capsule of speed to kill the hangover the tranquilizer was giving me and laid back in bed. Before I could fall asleep, the speed began to work and I got out of bed, found my phone and called Rifi. He told me it was the 22nd, and I hung up. I wrote a poem that I would put here, but I forget that diaries have rules, I think. But I can talk about the poem. It was about a bird that didn’t want to fly. All the other birds looked at him and called him lazy, but he was adamant with his refusal to fly. In the beginning, other birds brought him sympathy worms, but this shortly stopped. The bird looked up to the sky and down at the ground and was once again certain that the ground was much better. He then set up a trap and caught a groundhog. He was going to have a barbecue. The groundhog asked not to be eaten, so the bird let the groundhog out of the trap. They became friends and started a folk band. The other birds still thought this bird was crazy, but the more this bird thought, the more he thought flying around and eating worms was a stupid idea. He liked his band. The poem was satisfying and made me happy for the bird, even if the bird only exists in some figment in the back of my brain. But that’s not a bad place to be, if you can’t be performing folk songs with a groundhog. There is certainly the possibility that I live only in the far reaches of my own brain, that I am a figment of myself, and exist entirely on the concept of perception. As I am writing this, I look at a table in front of me. Does this table exist? I reach to feel it. It is smooth and made of something fake that resembles oak. I put the typewriter down and smell the table; I even lick it. It takes like sticky beer. I sit upright again, looking intently at this table, but still I am not entirely certain that this table exists. What else can a man do to confirm the existence of an outside object? But to confirm that I exist? Well, I think and feel, or at least I believe I do. It could be fake, like the phantom limb. I’m fine with the fact that certainty is something I may never have. This is regarding all things in life. My brother’s cat just hopped on my table. I give him the typewriter and tell him to give it a shot, be the new Shelly. But the keys on the typewriter are very hard to press down for a cat. It doesn’t matter, though, because the cat cannot understand my proposal. He is just a cat. I wonder if this cat was a writer, could there be a Moby Dick or a Ulysses in his little cat brain. I will never know. I am only a human. We look at each other, and I am happy with the uncertainty of life, for this means that the cat and I may very well understand one another. I don’t know, and my ignorance causes me to smile. ‘Meow’ the cat says.

The Fictional Diary of Andrew Lewis (1st Entry)

February 19, 2016

I was released from jail 23 hours ago. While sitting, drunk so not yet bored, I decided to start a diary. Some people think men should only write journals, not diaries, but I’ve always had a thing for that word. It worked for Anne Frank, and she was a writer as well. So, after my bail came through from a wonderfully, dirty man who runs shop on the corner of Mass and Seventh, I came directly home. That’s a lie, though, for I do not live 23 hours away from the county jail. I needed cigarettes and a celebratory six-pack. I went out of my way to buy them from the Jamaican fellow downtown because his deals are wonderful and I’m a cheap bastard. That’s not the real reason, but not a lie at all. I knew I needed some serious speed, for I was beginning to become extremely hungover. This does not take away from the fact that, without a doubt, I enjoy speed. I don’t enjoy the comedown, but that is what the beer was for. I guess I really did have things planned out. So I bought a hundred dollars worth of speed and decided to head home. But I took five, pure amphetamine capsules the second I was back in my car. Then I listened to the radio for five or six minutes, but turned it off. Radio tunes are quite awful, and their catchiness makes them similar to the yodeling that Hitler used to do those lonely nights in his bunker. They were all the rave and everybody hated them. I wouldn’t be surprised if his death was actually murder, but if there was ever an exception to murder, aside from this being Hitler, then I must admit that yodeling is the exception. I once wrote my local congressman and tried to convince him to outlaw Yanni, but I believe the man I wrote was Greek and thought I was being prejudice. I’m not, but when I imagine that all Greek people sang and talked and what came out was only Yanni, then I guess I would be prejudice, but I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone. If I have to be prejudice, then I assume prejudice in numbers is easier. So I turned the radio off, still faintly tasting the small crumbles of speed still stuck in my back teeth, and started to head home. Instead I drove around the city for eighteen hours screaming ‘For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her’. I think Simon and Garfunkel did a better job, but it’s not a fair comparison for it’s not really a song to scream to. I redosed once to keep from coming down. I think this was around the bridge, and I could have gone home at that moment, but decided to continue. I wasn’t completely satisfied with my last rendition of the song.

I guess I have to talk about jail, since the reason for your (the diaries) existence lies due to my incarceration. I, Andrew Lewis, am a criminal, even before this. But my heinous crime the other day will certainly one day cost me a job. Granted, it’ll be a shitty job and I would hate to work there, but I guess failure is still failure, even the good kind. I was drinking a couple beers at my house and decided I wanted company. It was 12:00am and I had two hours until last call. So I called Rifi, my personal taxi driver that makes his money by driving random people to random places. He was close, so it wasn’t long before he arrived. I smoothly walked to the cab, but Rifi swears that I stumbled. I counted on my fingers the amount of beers I had and came to the conclusion that I had much more than a few. I could have done this rationally, for I only go to bars when I’m already drunk, therefore by calling Rifi, the problem of how many was solved. I wish I would have done this first. It would have saved me from having to do simple math. So I looked at him and he looked at me. ‘Mr. Lewis’, he said. ‘Where are you going?’ I stared at him for a while, then told him I was drunk. Rifi does this strange laugh that creeps me out; it’s actually the only thing about him that I don’t like. I try not to be funny around him for this reason. After a small exchange about where I was heading, I asked him if he knew of a place that Peter, Paul and Mary would perhaps be at. So he took me to a tequila bar. And I sat at the bar of this posh looking place and drank doubles of extremely smooth tequila that the man sitting across from me recommended. But then I realized that I didn’t want to talk to this man. I wanted to find some connection to this place and Peter, Paul and Mary. Rifi really began to fuck my night up; I couldn’t think of anything else. I asked the bartender if they were around, and he told me that he thought one of them had died, but he wasn’t sure. This made me sad and I sat drinking more doubles thinking about the trio and, if one had actually died, which one I’d prefer it to be. I didn’t wan’t to be sexist, so I kept Mary alive. Then lo and behold, I saved Peter. I did this because I have a strong distaste for Paul of Tarsus. If I wanted to write a letter telling people off, getting in their business, condemning masturbation (which is one of my top seven favorite activities), and follow this by saying, ‘Oh, I wish I could be there’, then I’d make the goddamn trip down there. A postcard saying ‘Miss Ya’, is one thing, but a full-fledge, bitchy rant is another. Either way, I still felt bad for Paul, the real Paul, and thought of writing Peter and Mary a condolence letter. I wanted to ask the bartender for their address, but he was off somewhere else, probably pouring smooth tequila for some drunk. Then I realized that I finished my double and that I was also a drunk, so I started banging on the table until he came. He poured me one more, but cut me off after that. I told him that was fine, but ordered a beer as well. I told him I needed a chaser, even though that was contradictory of my entire stay there. But I do this quite often — when I get cut off, I pour the rest of the liquor into my tight-seal coffee cup I bring with me in my bag (which I bring everywhere due to the amount of drugs I take), sit, slowly enjoy my beer, and leave. Leave with one last double. I think the bartender was glad to see me go, but I didn’t care too much for him because I still thought he was lying about Peter, Paul and Mary being in the building. Not Paul, though. Paul is dead. The next thing I knew, there was a cop car that was singing and flashing, and I got a flashlight to the face. He asked me what I was drinking, and I told him that I was drinking the smoothest tequila in the world. I didn’t mind telling him that, for I was on the porch. Unfortunately for me, it wasn’t my porch and he arrested me for trespassing and drinking in public. He used the words ‘open container’, but even when I quickly closed the container, he was still adamant on arresting me. I was fine with that; I had no drugs on me, aside from a prescription for Percocet, which luckily was in my name. Back issues. Or maybe it was my leg. I have this large, goofy bump on my leg that some urgent care doctor described as a very deep cyst. He asked me if it hurt, and I lied and told him yes. ‘I’m sure, it looks like it hurts’ was his response. He wrote me a prescription for Percocet and told me to go to a surgeon. When I got home, I took half the bottle in one swallow, waited fifteen minutes, and decided that I would never see a surgeon. This city has so many urgent care, walk-ins that I just started going to a different one every time. It was funny, because every time when I told them that it hurt, they’d all respond by saying ‘I’m sure, it looks like it hurts’. This made me think for a moment that it was the same doctor morphing faces, but that seemed unlikely, which is great because that idea doesn’t sit well with me. Yes, so I get in the back of the cop car and try to lay down, but not fall asleep. It’s hard to do, but if you can get comfy with the handcuffs, it’s great. The ride wasn’t bad, and the metal tearing into my wrists kept me from falling asleep. I knew if I passed out that I would wake up sloppy and unaware. By staying awake, I conserved my drunkenness. And I was only slightly unaware. It was a short ride, and the cop refused to talk to me, even when I pleaded with him to tell me which of the three singers died. I remember thinking to myself that this bastard, this asshole, is denying me the necessary time of grief that comes after a shock like this. I felt bad, but I hoped that it was Paul. I like Paul, but I’d already gotten it in my head that he was dead, therefore halfway through the grieving process, and I’d hate to have to start again with Peter or Mary. They booked me and threw me in the drunk tank. It wasn’t busy, six or so people, but it was a Tuesday. Or was it a Wednesday? I always get those two days mixed up. But that’s not a problem, because I never know what day of the week it is. But if it’s a toss-up between Tuesday or Wednesday, then I’ll go back and forth until I admit that I always get those two days mixed up. They asked me if I wanted to make a phone call, but I was thinking about something else, so I told the guard ‘later’. When in the drunk tank, it’s always good to make friends with the guards, which I usually try to do. But this time I thought of an even better plan to be let go, free with no charges: I was going to pretend that I was a guard. I came up with this solution when I realized there was nobody in the big cell that I wanted to strike up a conversation with. So I got up, which took some time, and stood by the gate, keeping guard. I could have been at Buckingham Palace and fit right in, and I was proud of myself. A guard came over and asked me what I wanted. ‘Coffee’, I replied. He stared at me for a while and walked away. I knew I wasn’t a real guard, but did he? Did the long bars between us give me away? And would I get my coffee? Indeed, I never got my coffee. But I stayed put, trying to stand up straight, only knowing that I’m not supposed to smile at the stupid, American tourists. And then I thought about Steven Wright coming up to my face, me with my big poofy hat, and dead-panning his genius one-liners right in my face. Did I have it in me to keep the status quo? And if I could, would I feel bad that I didn’t laugh? Would it hurt Steven? So I quit my post and went back to the bench, but when I sat down I felt the terrible first pains of soberness. It was wasn’t much, but I knew that only more would come until I felt terrible. Would it be my head or stomach this time? So I went back to my post, only not as a guard but as a prisoner, and asked for my phone call. I didn’t get a response, but that was because no one was there. So I said it a little louder. I still got nothing, but that was because no one was there. I remember vividly thinking of yelling fire, but decided against it. This puzzled me, because they took all of our belongings, so how could there be a fire inside the cell. So I, more intensely than I should, thought of how I could start a fire. I imagined that I was captured by Bull-Moose cannibals, the ones that aren’t scary at first until you hear their foreign policy, and put in a small cage. And the only way out would be with fire. So, because of survival, I came up with a plan to make a fire. I would take my shoe and throw it as hard as I could on the floor. Before I could create one of the most basic of elements in the tank, the guard came. He asked me what I wanted. I told him I needed my phone call. He let me out and escorted me to the pay phone. I asked him for two quarters, but I assume he didn’t have it, because he walked away without saying anything. I knew who I could call, but I didn’t know what my bail was, so I thought for a moment. The guard was far away, but still staring at me. This made me nervous and I felt like I was being rushed. So I looked around me, and on a corkboard near the phone was a bail bondsman’s number. It was a business card printed on sheet paper and wrinkly. I thought it was safe to call him, so I did. He answered. He sounded alert, but I apologized for waking him up anyways. He laughed, and that made me feel good. He spoke in short sentences. ‘County?’ ‘Bail?’ ‘When?’ I gave him all the information and my charges, and he estimated what my bail might be. There was a long pause, then he said, this being the longest of all his sentences, ‘Be there in ten’. When I was let back into my cage by that peeping tom dressed as a guard, I thought about sleeping. But ten minutes is a short time. So I took off my shoe and threw it on the floor. I was sincerely disappointed that there was no fire, and I didn’t try again for fear of having to be disappointed again. I tried to act wasted, but I knew inside that it was wearing off. This made me feel like Shamu in need of a cigarette, knowing full well that Sea World doesn’t give whales smoke breaks. So I went to the man that was the most fully aware and asked him what the hell he did. This man was fairly nice looking, but with facial hair that wasn’t a beard but just severely unkempt ruffles. I felt my face, and I knew this was the man to talk to. He said he got on his John Deer Tractor (which is a strange thing to have in this city, but probably a strange thing not to have in this city) and tried to drive for more beer. This to me made perfect sense. But unfortunately, instead of going and getting beer, he drove into the wall of a museum. He didn’t hit anything important and only broke some drywall, so all he got was reckless driving and a DUI, which is a let-off if you really think of it. What if he drove into a Picasso, or a Rembrandt? But I decided to take his story to heart and to try and remember it. Now, here, that I am writing this down, means that I did remember it. Anyways, the guy gave me his address and told me to come by, something I will never do unless I’m in need of a tractor, and before he could say more, I was bailed out and on the streets. I tried to call Rifi, but he was working. So I took an unknown cab to my car. Then I went to light a cigarette, but realized I was out. So I had to go out, and that made me mad for a quick second. Then I thought of all the things that I could get if I decided to go out, so I went out. And the rest you know. Cigarettes, beer, speed and driving around the city like a madman cursing the heavens and hoping for the worst but getting nothing but regularity and a goddamn tongue that I would mess around all night, so much, that I would create blisters. But doesn’t everybody do that? I’ll have to ask my brother, ask him how his tongue is. I don’t know, it can’t always be just me. But then I think — is it always just me? This question is applied to every question in my existence. Am I alone, or is there more out there, like me, that cannot sleep, that believe the english language can be put into an order that can create the thing we like to call beauty? I question whether this was how my night went. I retract through my memory and stop at me leaving the jail. Maybe it went in a different way, so I rewrite part of my diary: — I quit and get bailed out by the messy man who works on Mass and Seventh. Luckily his number was on the corkboard that I saw when trying to make the phone call to the the person that doesn’t exist, and I tried that number. Someone answered. I had to think for a while, since I’ve been in my head for longer than I wanted, but after a while, I completely trusted the man. He would be my Jesus, until he asks for money, which would make him Judas. The bad Judas, though, the one that couldn’t keep his mouth shut but was entirely created to control the masses … And then I think of that phone call, and the fact that I would be speaking to the future. I assess the situation until I know that only the drugs and alcohol can keep someone this late/early, and not everybody thinks the same way as I do, at 3:49am, wanting to either write the American masterpiece or the drunken, spun-out prose. And honestly, I don’t care. But to the point, after the messy man bailed me out, I called Rifi, He didn’t answer, so I asked the cop out front if he could take me to my car. He didn’t say anything, but gave me the phone. I stared at it for a moment, then asked the guard, ‘I do get a couple of tries, right?’ The man continued to stare me in the eyes. This is strange, but from the research I’ve done, I try and play along. That lasts for twenty minutes, and I know that the alcohol was wearing off, plus the speed can only do so much, so much which is already so much to begin with, so let’s see how far we can take our minds/bodies. As long as it’s further than the original, and we keep getting ‘new’ and ‘property’ together, so why not create a different . . . I think to myself, as I’m gathering all my shit they stole; l, which the most important thing regarding our country, for most people do not realize exactly the gift they can possibly have, is the fact that more equates to the art than the artist. I stop talking, for I know, regardless of its validity or its stupidity, I need to get serious. This is the part of life that I hate, the need to be some sort of adult. I live as a growing child that grows horizontally rather than vertically. Responsibility is something I consider objective, so technically I am always responsible. It just varies at times. If I fix the frame of Magritte’s ‘The Lovers’ that I bent on a drunken night, the night I thought I’d be a filmmaker, then I am responsible. If I water the strange plant growing wildly in the yard, one that I am completely unaware of its name, then I am responsible. If I wake up, meaning that I slept, at all, then I am responsible. So only if the world saw me through my own definitions, I’d be the model, perfect citizen. I personally do not think that this is far off, but most people do. ‘You’re useless’, my friends and family used to say. And I would respond by saying that I was unaware of the word ‘useless’, and could they please use it in a sentence. But regardless of these jokers, after 23 hours of getting shit and driving in circles, screaming ballads, I am ready for bed. Of course I will not sleep, for I redosed not too long ago. So I sit in bed thinking of things to do. I would sculpt, but I haven’t any clay. I thought about singing on some recording device, but, forgetting the fact that I am a terrible singer, my little recorder only does fifteen seconds. It would do more if I erased the contents of the tape, but the tape is special to me. Frankly, I should get a new tape, but I usually find fifteen seconds within the original tape that I can erase, leaving me fifteen seconds at the end to record. But I can never find the right, philosophical thing to sing. I mean, I can change minds, I think, but that takes at least forty-five seconds, if not more. Fifteen is enough to advertise a new burger for Wendy’s. So I get as drunk as I can, which is sometimes the only thing to do when taking speed for this long. And drunk Andrew is more enticing than comedown Andrew. But that is as usual, I guess, for anybody who deals with uppers.

So now I am drunk and the day is ending (or beginning, depending on what the rising sun says; I’m terrified to find out) and as a day ends, I suppose a diary entry should as well. Maybe not, but I already dated this writing, and I’m too lazy to change it. I don’t like messing with the foundation of things, especially when these things involve the energy of excitement.

. . . but — I am no longer drunk. There are two things I hate about speed: the fact that you can’t get stupid drunk on it, and the fact that, at times, you feel as if your heart couldn’t beat any faster. But you know it will, and you feel as if you are on the edge of death. I tried getting stupid drunk, but it didn’t work, as it never does. So I redosed after my last beer, which was nearly an hour ago. Or so, I don’t know. Between two hours ago and one. But I was breaking the idea of my better judgement. Never redose for a fifth time; it only ends in heartbreak. Not the ideological lover’s heartbreak, but the real, physical breaking of your heart. This last redose was my sixth. This doesn’t bother me though, because my better judgement is rarely useable. Or maybe it is. I don’t know, I’ve never tried. So I wait for a high that seems to be held only in the far part of my memory, and I sure hope it comes. If not, then I’ll be a big ball of anxiety with no euphoria. I don’t mind the anxiety as much as I hate the lack of euphoria, and the thought that I could have saved that dose for another day. The type of speed I take, if the route of administration is orally, has a thirty minute lag period before it takes effect. Sometimes there is a phantom high that comes before, but that is only on the first, sometimes second, dose. On the sixth, the lag period is a period of intense regret and doubt. You wonder if it will make you great or make you terrible. This last redose didn’t get me high-high, but it did, after a while, make me feel a bit better. I do worry a little bit about my breathing. I find it hard to breathe, and that it doesn’t come natural. It intrigues me, and my intrigue is stronger than my worry. I still felt angry that I wasted eleven dollars on a six-pack that was ineffectual. I spent that much because the alcohol level was fundamentally higher than cheap beers, but it didn’t matter. I had some benzos, but I only use those when I come down. They tend to hamper on the effect of the speed. I often take speed, but not often to this level. I think it was jail. Not that jail was bad. I explained to you, diary, the extent of it already. But the idea of jail and the thought that there should be some afterward celebration. Side note, Andrew, re-read if you get to this point and you forget about how you spent those first 23 hours.