ON THE DRUGGG!!!!

This one is for you, Off-Your-Meds Frank, who used to post comments to this blog like, "GET STERILIZED, U CRAZY FUCKIN BITCH!! UR ON THE DRUGGG!!!!"

I'm sorry, Off-Your-Meds; Off-Your-Fucking-Nut Frank. I'm sorry to disappoint you with regards to your life's work: ridding the world of godless, drug-loving, sexed-up evil doers like me, in addition to too-much-goddamn-fur-on-their-tiny-bodies kittens; scarred, three-legged Michael Vick rescue dogs; those lazy Haitians we’re currently flooding with AMERICAN money, goddammit; swishy gays; too “white-acting" blacks; too "accent-y" Mexicans; shifty-eyed ragheads who want to burn America to the ground and turn every Walmart into a mosque; children with leukemia; and the worst of the worst, old men with Down's Syndrome.

I mean, come on. What is this world coming to?

My friend Frank, I agree. The world would be so much simpler without any of us goddamn evil doers to muddy up the moral waters.

I am truly, truly sorry, Off-Your-Fucking-Nut Frank that, in my absence, I haven't bought a ticket on the After Life Express with a bottle of online painkillers purchased from CheapCanadianRX.com and a half pint of Boone's Country Kwencher, Tri-Fruit Flavor.

Like most people out there, I expect, I've just been weathering the current economic k-hole/reach-around/rusty trombone.

Meaning, I've been working like an un-pimped, strolling-the-eerily-empty-side-streets-at-night hooker with no concern for physical safety, police presence, or venereal diseases.

Luckily, I work in advertising, so the powers-that-be are okay, in fact downright supportive, of my concessions.

Besides, why shouldn’t I just work at selling the American public shit programming that even I wouldn’t watch when stoned out of my mind at three in the morning and sock away whatever cash I can, while I can? After all, everything in the “literary pursuits” part of my life this past year has absolutely broken my heart.

Maybe there’s no moral to my stories. Maybe I swear too much. Maybe the people in my essays are just awful, depressed assholes who stay awful, depressed assholes. Even in the last paragraph. Especially in the last paragraph.

Redemption has never been a particularly appealing concept to me. Not in my life, to my own detriment and to the people unfortunate enough to become close to me. Not when I’m reading a book or watching a movie or listening to a song. And certainly not in my own writing. I like reveling in the filth. It's kind of funny to me.

I just don’t find redemption funny. Not sidesplittingly so, anyway.

And if I can’t have the funny and the filth, I’m just another mediocre writer who over-shares and drinks too much and smokes too much and orders, via various online Canadian pharmacies, pills that are meant to allievate pain from old people’s hip replacement surgeries.

I swear a lot and I hate a lot, myself the most, and I thought those things were negotiable when it came to what I wrote.

But I guess they’re not.

That realization has made me feel better than anything else in a long time. Well, not as good as the sixty-count Oxycodone I still can’t even fucking believe I was able to order online with no prescription. But still.

And I had Frank acting as my Morgan Freeman-from-Shawshank-Redemption-type guide this past year.

You know, that movie every positive, well-adjusted person you know and hate immediately rattles off as their favorite movie ever.

It’s true. Frank was my spiritual guide, of sorts. That is, if noble, dulcet-toned Morgan Freeman were a fucking sociopath who’s repeatedly advised you to get busy ODing or… well, to just FUCKIN DIE ALREADY. And whose IP address you’d recently shared with the New York City Police Department.

Frank, you truly horrible, hateful, racist, misogynistic, homophobic asshole, you never gave up on me, did you?

I’d removed my email address from the blog because I felt like a worthless sack of shit when people would write to tentatively inquire if I’d finally accidentally ODed or choked on my own vomit and was I going to ever post anything again and did I have bigger stuff going on, or what.

Finally, the emails from the nice people stopped. I was relieved because I wasn’t writing at all.

But see, Frank must’ve saved that old email address because he never gave up.

At least twice a month, sometimes more, I’d get an email like, "Where RU, whore? U fuckin dRUGGG whore. RU DEAD YET??? HOW CUM UR NOT WRITIN???"

Thank you, Frank. You gave me back everything. You made me remember why I started writing in the first place.

Not out of money, or recognition, or "love of the craft.” That last one makes me laugh, Frank. You and I both know I’m not that good and that I don't deign to call the shit I sling “craft” or “art,” either. Right?

But out of hate.

Those soy latte drinking, organic, Patagonia heads I was supposed to be writing for this past year? They’re like mosquitoes to me. They don’t bother me much. Not really. As long as I’m not trying to get into their headspaces and not trying to write some tepid, gently critical PG-13 shit they’d have a mild, appreciative chuckle over on a Sunday morning before heading out to yoga, they don’t bother me. So they don’t bother me at all, anymore.

But people like you. Ignorant, truly horrendous, quite possibly criminally insane people one only becomes acquainted with while watching the Anatomy of a Serial Killer marathon on A&E.

That, I can get my hate behind. You make me feel really alive. And thrilled that there are people so much more ineffably fucked up than I am cruising around, as yet unapprehended by law enforcement officials sent by the National Institute of Mental Health. Or by the ACLU. Or both.

I'm serious, Frank. Thank you. You made me want to write again. No one else this year has had that power.

So now, your work is done. Now you can go back to torturing puppies and kittens and campaigning for the legalized euthanasia of gays, blacks, Hispanics, Arabs, Down’s patients, and the elderly. Especially the Down's Syndrome elderly.

I guess I’ll write something soon, once I’ve finished off this sixty-count stash of Oxycodone.

And hey Frank, guess what?

I’ll be ON THE DRUGGG!!!!