Some time ago, I spent a week smoking copious amounts of meth and staying up all night masturbating furiously to all manner of smut shut away alone in a dark room. In the wake of all this cum-soaked lunacy and sleep deprivation, my dopamine levels plummeted and I sank into a terrible state of existential despair and suffered from a particularly horrible bout of sleep paralysis.
I was never as interested in meth as I was crack. The high wasn’t as desperate and intense, as fast as crack, especially when comparing smoking meth to injecting crack. I haphazardly walked into yet another dragon’s den and stupidly fucked around…
…And yes, I found out.
Meth only seemed less intense because it was so much longer acting. I would be high for hours and could stretch a lot less meth for a lot longer time, with a lot less sleep too. the third or fourth time I went to work without having slept, I began to worry seriously about how noticable my new habit had become and was growing progressively more paranoid by the hour. The only reason I stopped was because I was cut off by my dealer, who happened to be my only connection to that particular drug.
In the horrible wake of that long week, I sank into a deep and introspective depression, questioning my life’s worth and the value of human relationships to the core. Nothing seemed hopeful and all the cheer had been leeched from the world. I wanted neither to live nor die, but to simply hide and be away, far away from everything and everyone that could hurt me, in a quiet safe place just for me where I could numb my senses with… More meth. Much like crack, the meth was calling out to me and it wanted me bad. Such a sweet, tempting voice from the devouring maw of a twisted degenerate nightmare. I barely had the willpower to resist, and I think if I had continued using it even once more, I never would have quit.
There are things in this world simply not worth trifling with. Meth is one of them.
Towers of Rust 