And pickle rhymes with nickel. For the love of Christ! Indeed!  The dope and the alcohol had sent me over the edge again. I knew the drill. I knew that I was crashing. I know this territory. I’m breaking down. The pills and the alcohol are gone. I’m alone in my apartment. I’m supposed to be. I’m seeing people. They’re seducing me. The television is dismantling my psyche. My mind will not shut down. There is urine and vegetable oil all over the floor and my body. Torn clothing. I cannot stop pacing. From the living room, thru the bedroom and into the bathroom. I carefully remove the shower curtain. There is nobody behind the curtain. There is no one in the closet or the cabinets. I have not slept in 72 hours. I have been awake drinking Cobra, ingesting meth and inhaling Kolonopin. I don’t deserve this hell. I earned it. A bunker full of corpses. Death sentence fantasies. This is beyond too much to drink and I should have known better. This is self-annihilation. This is brutal truth and zero honesty. This is where God drops you off and whispers “Good luck”. Terror. There is shit under my fingernails. My penis is bleeding. My rectum is sweating. They want me. I want them. I am beyond shame. This place, and myself will never be clean again. The attempted staging of a crime scene to cover the warp and the aroma. Putting things back the way they were. The way I remember them.

David Burdett