On this particular day I made my presence known at school, and so my 'good' attendance resulted in me being arrested on my first felony charge. All of these ridiculous avenues I aimlessly sought out were slowly creating a monster. I was a sad little child taking on false burdens. I clearly had no fucking idea how to simply just be happy, much less how to even pursue it. When I strived towards perfection my sense of life was even more jacked up than when I did drugs. I was a complete mess. How else could I spice up the doldrums that I perceived as a constant part of my reality. Drugs were the simplest answer to it all, to everything, and I say everything because they seemingly solved any and every of the perceivable situation, grand or minute. These difficulties were usually nothing to an emotionally mature individual, but these were all my own subjectively giant burdens. I chose to depressingly attach myself to those imaginary worries, and then I owned them outright. I had now been routinely chomping down on four blue valiums in the morning binded along some weed at minimum, and then as the day ensued I ate more and more losing track of everything that was going on around me. I even crushed the valium up and laced them into my marijuana cigs. I was a freakin' doped up lunatic, but hey I was anxiety free for the most part, until sooner usually than later I would find myself caught up into some idiotic jam, and 'fuck it' if consequences ever resulted. What better way to deal with and forget about any of those consequences but with more drugs? It would take many years to figure out any 'better way,' and this wiser alternative outsiders could perceive as common sense, it was so obvious to everyone but me. Rational thoughts I couldn't seem to ever conceive of on my own. However, nothing over the course of the next decade-plus would grab my attention better than GOD, and boy did I ignore HIM until my brain felt as raw and shiny as a crocodile hide.
There I was passed out again in class, drooling like a half-witted loon all over my desk, and here is Mr. Rodando (aka Senor Robo-3000), who was called in again to wake me from another regular peaceful drug slumber by my poor teacher. This was a typical scene from the beginning of my junior year, getting really doped before school, and then awakened by one of the three fine assistant principals of Keller High. In every instance this had gone down very similar as it did on this particular day, except on this day Mr. Rodando took some action involving my suspension from school. I often wonder why they hadn't deemed me qualified as being 'under the influence' enough to not be suspended on those recent previous occasions when I was awoken by the Mr. Rodando. I was pilled out every other time to where it was most obvious something seriously drug-related was interfering with my brain. Well I am now certain that it has to have been a subtle combination of two plausible explanations why I wasn't suspended before in those earlier incidents. In order to satisfy my infantile imaginings that frequently became quite exhausted I soon realized it was simple. The night that preceded this mornings encounter with Mr. Rodono I had used a needle for the first time. I had no damn clue what I was doing but I was determined to expand my horizons radically beyond to where that brought me looped through inside some drug-induced worm-hole. I was so insanely inclined to drugs that I had set out to shoot up ketamine (a cat-tranquilizer that is referred to as Special K by druggies). One of my friends worked at an animal clinic and as I was skimming pills off the shelfs from the pharmacy, he pulled vials of ketamine from this veterinarians stocked supply room, and then we engaged in some good old- fashioned bartering. Now I had drank this stuff in it's liquid form, snorted, and smoked it in it's powdered form, but I had yet to do it right. I didn't even have the proper equipment for the job. The needle I used was huge and I had never done this before so I didn't know anything about inter-venously shooting any substance. Luckily what little innocence I had left probably saved my damn life because I ended up 'skin-popping' accidentally before I even knew what that term even meant. When a junky has abused his veins for an extended matter of years at a time day after day than one must resort to doing a 'muscle shot,' and what I had done that night wasn't even considered a muscle shot. I merely injected a giant bubble under my skin in my hand, and I now realize it was most likely a very dangerous amount. If I had directly bumped that shit it would have immediately invaded my bloodstream, and I am most certain I would be dead. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I effectively passed out where I sat, on this small sectional couch that I had in my room as a teenager. All I remember was waking up to the sound of my Dad's fist beating the locked door in the morning quite frustrated. His frustration was justified more and more everyday due to my total lack of respect, boy I was the anti-thesis of a respectable young man. Im sure it took me a good minute to wake from those loud noises manufactured by my angered father on the other side of my bedroom door. Who knows where his imagination went every time I had that door locked. A year or so later my parents resorted to taking the damn doors of the hinges for a brief period of time after feeling quite defeated in dealing with my teenage madness. I would eventually hear my father's commotion and rouse myself from my stupor, pop some more pills, roll a joint, and then head to school. Little did I know before the day's end I would be in juvenile hall.
