trainspotting
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Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career.
Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing
machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol,
and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home. Choose your friends.
Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose
a three piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose
DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting
on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing
fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all,
pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarassment
to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future. Choose life.
But why would I want to do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life. I chose something else.
And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've
got heroin?
People think it's all about misery and desperation and
death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget
is the pleasure of it. Otherwise, we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not
fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid.
Take the best orgasm you've ever had, multiply it by
a thousand, and you're still nowhere near it. When you're on junk you have
only one worry: scoring. When you're off it, you're suddenly obliged to
worry about all sorts of other shite. Got no money, can't get pished. Got
money, drinking too much. Can't get a bird, no chance of a ride. Got a
bird, too much hassle. You have to worry about bills, about food, about some
football team that never fucking wins, about human relationships and all the
things that don't really matter when you've got a sincere and truthful
junk habit.