I needed to pass my Fork Lift license. I still had a theory test. I was shitting myself. I even carried some baby wipes, to clean up the mess. I was all nerves and phentermine, a bit jumpy as well.
'I'm gorgeous.'
He was in a Dirty Granpa kind of way.
Who doesn't love that movie with Robert Di Nero and Zack Efron? I'M ON CRACK!!! I said that exact line working the AFL at Optus, and security escorted me off the premises. AFL never recovered since Ben Cousins showed the Eastern States how Western Australians really party.
I needed to pass my Fork Lift license.
There still was a chance.
A slim one.
If only I kept my mouth shut.
I didn't want anyone knowing I was on gear.
I was in the domain of tradies and had to act like one. If I didn't, they smell a rat.
I was a rat to the core. If I found a good line, no one was going to convince me otherwise to not use it.
'If you don't retract what you just said, I'm going to knock your teeth into the back of your throat.'
I wondered what kind of drugs my instructor was on.
I heard about some fitness nuts who were taking a combination of life-extending drugs, including adrenochrome. Well I had my compounded short release Phentermine, long releasing Duromine, and Vyvanse, a remastered speed pill that not only helps you beat the cravings but had you up all day and night whacking yourself off to techno porn.
And of course Nescafe coffee. And he could have his cultured human umbilical arterial endothelial cells, just as long as the cunt passed me.
I was shitting myself. I even carried some baby wipes, to clean up the mess. I was all nerves and phentermine, a bit jumpy as well.
But then Barry Simpson turned up. I was expecting Adam, that intellectual Forklift instructor, the one with the dirty goatee, yes, the guy who wrote the very funny multiple-choice questions, like, a) is it better to wank half the night, or b)all the night, before you have a Work Safe forklift test.
That was it.
I was under the pump.
If I didn't pass this latest two-day course, I was going to be the laughing stock of the tradies.
I couldn't have that.
If I was exposed, they might bash me up.
A few times I'd been exposed.
A crack head rapper who read one of my posts once, came around to visit me.
He got it.
He really got it.
He wanted me to manage his rap band.
But I didn't know which way these tradies would go, up Trade street, or down Pear Shape Crescent.
'You fucking poser, trying to wow us with your erudition.'
I tone that down, I said. Besides being Robin William's biggest fan, I wanked at nights with a rope tourniquet around my throat, snorted whatever fitted up my noses, and ranted too hard and fast, that no one was ever going to contest what I had to say, until after I had said it.
And about this time, I could feel the phentermine kicking in.
Another wave was approaching. A big fat wave dumped on me.
It was Lisdexamfetamine. Not only was it managing my ADHD, but it was also tapping into my dopamine reservoirs.
Anything could happen when that happened. From this point on, I'd leave everything to chance and blame my mental condition if things got out of order.
All I knew, was that if you killed someone under the influence, there was always ADHD that could save you from a life sentence in jail. And six months later, said my attorney, 'you'll be back on the street playing the fool, being baked...- fade out - 'this advertisement was sponsored by Vyvanse, says a throaty voice, golden tonsilled, gosh, it had to be my instructor. 'And do you have problems getting it up?' Cialis enters from stage left, with a giant hard-on, inviting yours truly to indulge and have a romantic night alone with myself.)
'I'm gorgeous.'
I hope they don't think I'm a crack head. Off the gear I'm talkative. On it, maybe I talk less.
