Hey Jack, I Don’t Want To Talk About This

why don’t you just quit? You don’t even like this shit. You know it doesn’t make you high, not high like the things which you do like the ones that make you fly.

Well I can’t do those other things anymore, I did that shit for so many years that they made my brain perpetually sore. Not sore in a way causing physical pain but I’d rather endure physical pain than the mental fragility caused by cocaine….I mean I already was consumed with PTSD so when I did cocaine it took less than counting to three to make me feel like I needed to fight or flee. And here is where coke gave me the dick- I only chose to flee and it made me so sick. I do not at all like to feel like having to hide, and my god, the voices that began to reside in my head that made the voice sound just like Sgt. McFred outside of of the crackhouse, I’m feeling the dread cause they’re calling my name using not only my first he used first and surname….So while I was stuffed in the crack in between a washer and dryer, this space I know you have seen, it’s pretty universal and it is small, yet I got myself in there- legs, arms and all. I’d say three hours I stayed in that crack and if that wasn’t punny I don’t know what is, Jack.

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