![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
useless fictive fragment
Mar. 18th, 2007 01:06 pmHere's a tidbit that I can't seem to find a use for....
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You’re not going to like this story. It’s one of those reminiscences where the author shoves themselves into the forefront, like they’re special or proud of how they changed. We all know stories like that suck. I don’t know why I’ve started writing it.
River Pheonix’s death was a touchstone for the junkie I used to be. Before I knew his mom was into drugs too. I never knew him though. Don’t even know his mom, that one’s friend of a friend.
Anyway, River died and a friend got a copy of the autopsy report’s toxicology report. Days of math based on body weights (of course we weighed ourselves naked in a group setting, it’s just how we were back then) and a week’s lag time to score the harder to find parts, and we had enough for a dozen people, some of whom weren’t very cool so they had to pay a hundred dollars a pop, to put exactly what killed him into our bloodstreams.
We, for the week or so leading up to the party while we did our planning, made fun of him for dying. Or, maybe, we made fun of him for overdosing or dying from an overdose. It was a decade ago. I don’t even remember what the ten or so different drugs were. Laudanum? Paregoric? One was an opiate-laced liquid that we had to prepare and do test batches of to get exactly right.
I warned you. This is one of those stories that isn’t a story. It’s a strung-together sequence of half-memories where the ending is about how nobody died and life has been meaningless since I got clean. Sure, being an inch from death for a few years, the muggings, the overdoses, the friends who would just tumble off the world like they’d tripped and fallen into a neverending hole, they were dangerous and wrong, but that’s not because they were boring.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You’re not going to like this story. It’s one of those reminiscences where the author shoves themselves into the forefront, like they’re special or proud of how they changed. We all know stories like that suck. I don’t know why I’ve started writing it.
River Pheonix’s death was a touchstone for the junkie I used to be. Before I knew his mom was into drugs too. I never knew him though. Don’t even know his mom, that one’s friend of a friend.
Anyway, River died and a friend got a copy of the autopsy report’s toxicology report. Days of math based on body weights (of course we weighed ourselves naked in a group setting, it’s just how we were back then) and a week’s lag time to score the harder to find parts, and we had enough for a dozen people, some of whom weren’t very cool so they had to pay a hundred dollars a pop, to put exactly what killed him into our bloodstreams.
We, for the week or so leading up to the party while we did our planning, made fun of him for dying. Or, maybe, we made fun of him for overdosing or dying from an overdose. It was a decade ago. I don’t even remember what the ten or so different drugs were. Laudanum? Paregoric? One was an opiate-laced liquid that we had to prepare and do test batches of to get exactly right.
I warned you. This is one of those stories that isn’t a story. It’s a strung-together sequence of half-memories where the ending is about how nobody died and life has been meaningless since I got clean. Sure, being an inch from death for a few years, the muggings, the overdoses, the friends who would just tumble off the world like they’d tripped and fallen into a neverending hole, they were dangerous and wrong, but that’s not because they were boring.
