Words Can't Say This. The One Word

I Want A Drink. I Want Fifty Drinks. I Want A Bottle Of The Purest, Strongest, Most Destructive, Most Poisonous Alcohol On Earth. I Want Fifty Bottles Of It. I Want Crack, Dirty And Yellow And Filled With Formaldehyde. I Want A Pile Of Powder Meth, Five Hundred Hits Of Acid, A Garbage Bag Full Of Mushrooms, A Tube Of Glue Bigger Than A Truck, A Pool Of Gas Large Enough To Drown In. I Want Something Anything Whatever However As Much As I Can.

My Wife Says I'm Only Comfortable When There's A Fight. And It's True. The Thing That Motivates Me Is Struggle.

I've Always Wondered What It Would Be Like If The Messiah, Or Christ Returned, Were Actually Alive And Living In Our Society; Who Would That Person Be, How We Would Identify Them, How Would They Live And What Would They Believe In, How Would Society React To Them? I Decided To Try And Tell My Idea Of That Story.

I Close My Eyes And I Take A Deep Breath And I Think About My Life And How I Ended Up This Way. I Think About The Ruin, Devastation And Wreckage I Have Caused To Myself And To Others. I Think About Self-hatred And Self-loathing. I Think About How And Why And What Happened And The Thoughts Come Easily, But The Answers Don't.

I Go To My Room And I Drink And I Smoke Some Cigarettes And I Think About Her. I Drink And I Smoke And I Think About Her And At A Certain Point Blackness Comes And My Memory Fails Me.