Vehemently Vitriolic

Spitz are a fickle mistress. They stare at you from the store shelves on every trip you make for sustinence. You’ve overcome her before and been clean for months. You haven’t even had the urges. The ugly, ugly urges. You’ve beat it before and shunned her…and this is a one-time only thing. You certainly won’t call her in the morning. Plus they’re like 2 for $5, so really, you’re SAVING money, and getting them this way rather than on the street where who knows what the Hot-N-Spicy might be cut with is way safer. Rationalization is the addicts only true friend.

So you eat them while watching a hockey game, and that euphoric rush comes over you. Yeah, you’ve been there before, and it just feels so…..good. Even if Biron cannot stop the scoring, your mind is floating away in ecstasy. One more handful, thats all, and then you’ll seal the bag up and put them away for another day. But that one handful turns into another….and another….and another until they’re gone. You look around, and somehow every vessel even remotely concave in nature has become a morbid container for deceased pods.

I can handle this, you think to yourself, after all, they’re just small seeds of delicately seasoned goodness packed into a tiny vessel of wonderment and joy. The tiniest packaging of perfection to come from the Mother Nature supermarket surely can be no match for you.

And then before you know it, you’re down on your hands and knees searching the carpet under the recliner hoping PRAYING that a few may have escaped your gaping maw as you recklessly dumped them in way back when the good times seemed endless, when supply was plentiful and all the world knelt before you. It seems as though eons have passed since you cocked your head back and gave a hearty belly-chortle at whatever deity may be listening as more of the saltined vessels crammed their way into your cheek. But, that is fleeting, and you have hit rock bottom trying, in your self induced haze, to differentiate between seed and dust ball.

But wait! Money can be exchanged for goods and services! Theres that place down the street that always hooks you up. They are only open specific times though, so you whip your head around to the almighty clock on the wall. Oh great teller of futures, shall I be in the magic timelines of 7-11? It appears yes! All signs point to it. Scraping yourself off the floor to leave the cat dander and polyester fibres in peace, you bound down the stairs and out the door. It is a quest, a mission. This is how the crusading knights felt as they left to fight the Moors in their search for the Holy Grail you think. Manifest destiny!

And soon, you have them in your hand again. The exhiliration of ripping open the EZ ReSeal top nearly brings you to orgasm. Oh sure, you had to thieve the change from that horrible place in the car where the coffee and drinks spill and the pennies are cemented together in a cacaphony of sugar, but it was worth it! Breaking into your own car seems somewhat of a step down the wrong path, but the though perishes as the high rushes over again as that mischevious tickle of dill pickle flavoring excites every neuron and brings you back to baseline. The day may commence now.

And now the bag is gone. Even quicker than before, and you are wiped. But the body will simply not be punished and used without ramifications, and the piper has come to collect his payment. The bathroom, the stall of Hades, the seat of porcelain forged in the 10th circle beckons. You always forget this part. Its not the pleasant high, and the brain seems to make this particular memory elusive, so its always rambling in the back of your mind, but enough BBQ powder always shuts that little voice of reason out.

Well, the voice has lost its larygintis, and its screaming now. So loud, you can feel it in your very bowels. A long time abuser like you knows its worse to binge than to keep the addiction rampant on a constant plane, and you begin to wonder aloud if this may be partially your fault, but mostly TV and the Internets. The colon, it seems, will not take take the ungodly amount of fibre you have crammed down in such a short period of time, and thus do you seat yourself to allow the demon to walk (naye, run!) once more.

Ah. Thats it. That crappy feeling slowly goes by and the elation returns, albeit in a lower level. You’ve merely survived. But, soon enough you return. You ALWAYS return. The magazines are simply not thick enough to quench it’s thirst.

The fourth return trip and you are swearing “never again” to the same gods that earlier you had mocked. Surely they could not have created both this bitter cold heartless world and simultaneously the panacea of seeded elightenment. Each time your cursing only grows in magnitude and length as you have more and more time in a prone position to contemplate the evil liquidating itself. Tiny flecks of your humanity flushed away. How much more can you take? How much more is there to GIVE? You are only ONE MAN! Surely the universe may be infinite, but this must end. The viscous cycle must have an offramp.

And it does, but you cannot escape the hollow feeling afterwards. There is a hole now. A hole to be filled. Deep down the truth belittles you. You know you will be back. You will do the same dance again, and your card will be filled by only that single fickle mistress who beckons you beyond all sanity to the underworld of All Dressed. And one must always obey one’s mistress.