Cracked Up To Be...Mature

A singer/songwriter's misadventures within the 'wonderful' world of showbusiness, while battling an annoying little drug habit and a penchant for buying Stephen King novels.

Wrap the cord around the arm.

Tie off the little blue vein.

Grab the big blue needle.

Insert big blue needle into little blue vein.

Pull back plunger, draw blood.

Mix blood and illegal substance together.

Push plunger down.

And now, get ready for the biiiiiiiiig effing scream...

It's a process I know off by heart. Me and about half of the guys I have in my phonebook know it off by heart. You live where we live, there's a 50/50 chance you'd do the same.

After the biiiiiig effing scream, I get up out of it ('it' being the only word I can come up with to describe how the feeling feels) and get up for some water.

After that, it's back to my room to get back to the lyrics I'm writing. After the last 'fix' I should have some inspiration for a song that hasn't been written before. Which, after hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds and HUNDREDS of years, is veeeery difficult indeed.

I turn off the cursed effing Blackberry, the thing that must destroy all showbiz families. Thankfully, I am secretly gay, so that eliminates all chance of post-coital kiddies. I need full concentration for my work.

I take a deeeeeeep breath, then I begin.

An hour later, I've written 'Love is....' on the paper.

Fuck it.

I need a cigarette.

Perhaps a drink.

Maybe a mint.

The End

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