Current mood:	crazy
Current music:	Billy Talent - nothing to lose

With The Energy
"Earth calling, pilot to co-pilot. Looking for life on this planet sir, no sign of it. All I can see is a bunch of smoke flying and I'm so high that I might die if I don't buy it. Let me out of this place, I'm out of place. I'm in outerspace, I've just vanished without a trace. I'm going to a pretty place now where the flowers grow, I'll be back in an hour or so." - Marshall Mathers

I feel it is necessary that I mention I am extremely intoxicated right now. My words are weapons, sharp like a dagger with a jagged edge. When most people come home from a long day at work, or whatever it is they do to fill their day, they think "Ahhh, home sweet home!". When I come home I find myself contemplating if whether or not I should keep my shoes on - in case if they attack and I need to flee out the back door. I wouldn't want to have to do that without my shoes, so, more than often I will be lounging in my living room with a fresh pair of Adidas strapped tight. I used to sell drugs and as a result I developed some kind of obsessive paranoia disorder. Everytime I went out to meet a member of my clientele I was expecting a SWAT team to swarm around me and lay down inevitable justice. Fortunately, I got out of that risky game. One time I was walking home from school and I was surprised with a massive SWAT wagon parked right in front of my goddamn house. I nearly died from intense worry. They had finally caught up and it was time that I went out guns'a'blazing. I might go out in a bodybag, but never in cuffs. I gripped the cold steel peacefully resting against my right-side ribcage and focused on everything in the world that pissed me off. Fuel for war. Siberian warriors traditionally consumed psilocybin-fungus before going into battle because it enhanced their senses and brought out the natural, primeval war skills that every human unknowingly possesses. I needed those mushrooms. Before exploding onto the scene and making history I decided to ask one of the many wandering cops what all the commotion was about. Apparently, there was a hostage situation down the street and they decided to use my front lawn as a headquarter base. Some guy lost his wife and he decided it would be a good idea to hold a nailgun against his daughter's head in order to get what he desired. Phew, close call. Still, I can't help but suspect everyone within my various surroundings. They're all out to get me. Every man with a cell phone, every idle car near mine, every exceptional glance I receive from a stranger, my muscles cannot help but tighten. My mind becomes sharp. I become incredibly observant, I plot escapes, I calculate all possible threats and thoroughly analyze the danger. I think that technically I am officially insane due to this constant tendency. But then again, who decides what is to be sane and/or insane? Guys in ties and suits? Spoiled brats from private schools? Bitch, please. I like to tell myself that I am just a very careful person. You can just call me a boyscout because I always go out prepared; one can of 5% oleoresin capsicum mace, dual 9mm Walther semi-automatic P99 handguns, an aluminum baseball bat, and a Navy Seal-issue combat knife. I also have a mexican whip and a dragon-head handled katana, but those weapons seem somewhat impractical to carry around. Imagine you got in an argument with some dude and he pulled out a fucking samurai sword.

"Oh shit!"

Do you think I'm crazy for being equipped to that degree? Police officers carry the exact same amount of weaponry when they patrol the suburban streets. Like that chick from "Bowling For Columbine", I am just cutting out the middleman. Why do people call police? Because they have guns. One of my favourite sayings - a gun is like a condom, it is better to have one and not need it than to need one and not have it. I'll be damned if I don't stand up to some malicious menace that endangers me and my loved ones. I'll be damned if I fall victim to some other mothefucker that thinks he has the right to claim vengenace upon the world. Picture me scared of a man that breathes the same air as me. I will not be beaten. I cannot fail. This is survival. My mind is of an ancient warrior's, my body is an unfortunate mistake foolishly placed in modern times. Sounds silly? Soon you'll be paying for groceries with DNA codes in your vocal chords, so hang on tight. At this very moment I decided I will no longer take drugs. I don't even enjoy them anymore. I just wake up feeling like shit every morning. Although they have provided infinite inspiration and motivation in the past, I feel as if I am beyond the problematic clutch that used to be oh so tight. Stephen King, one of my favourite authors, wrote nearly a dozen novels while under the influence of a ten year cocaine binge. He claims that he does not even remember writing them. I want to remember. I want to be nostalgic and grateful for the past behind me. But sometimes the past can be haunting.