I am wearing Triple L shirts.
That’s three sizes too big.
Three?
Yes, sometimes I even wore four.
Given, a bit too big even for me.
So, I’m no stranger to wearing tents.
I really thought the sizes were made for an Asian frame, not a large Caucasian,
since they were made in China.
That’s how I justified wearing those big shirts.
Besides, they didn’t cut into me and make me look ridiculously gay.
That’s how I look in large shirts.
Too tight, too clingy, obviously I’m overweight.
Denial, denial.
The river, the Nile.
Have no fear, mommy’s little helper is here.
That was a John Gartland creation.
But phentermine aint no valium.
Valium says fuck the washing.
Phentermine says, get down on your knees and scrub the floor.
Valium says, wasted days and wasted nights.
Phentermine says, let's go outside and the annoy the fuck out of my chemist.
I had already been banned from one clinic.
Shopping.
It’s a term, meaning, trying to score legal drugs.
An oxymoron, right.
But doctors being doctors, love to give, then deny.
There’s something gratifying in letting a patient hang on the cliff face then stomping on his hands, watching him spiral deep into the abyss.
Happened a few times.
Rasputin is a friend of mine.
One man’s poison is another man's drug.
Rasputin was stabbed, in an assassination attempt.
He not only lived but defied odds and ran a hundred-yard dash to the nearest brothel, smashing the Moscow record set by Ivan the Terrible.
He had to be on crack.
It wasn’t adrenaline kicking in, it was dopamine, he bragged, as the mad monk in flowing Cossick robes entered a whore house to finish off his evening of heavy drinking.
