Oh God.... how silly do I sound? Seriously, I know that the shit I've been writing has not been of the best quality and neither is it publishable, but somehow I hope that you get the point I'm trying to make here. That somewhere in between my inconsolable mash of words and lyrics you can pick up my tone, my gist, my need to tell someone about what is happening to me, why I did the things I did, and who the fuck I am. I know I'm just another junkie to you, and yeah, that's what I am, but its what happened that I want you to learn a lesson from, what I'm doing to survive, if what you can call what I'm currently doing survival. I guess all I want is for someone to listen...

Don't we all?

"You're made of my rib oh baby You're made of my sin
And I cant tell where your lust ends and where your love begins...

And the moon gives me permission and I enter through her eyes
She's losing her virginity and all her will to compromise..."

-Adapted from Pretty When You Cry by Vast

Where was I? Oh yeah, I'd just acquired old Soloman, left Clarens and was on my way to Durban. And by God did the good times roll there...

First of all I got plenty laid. It was hard at first to come to terms with how much ass I was getting. Literally. Haha, I know, but it's true. I don't know if it was my animal magnetism, which doesn't exist, the laid back attitude of the women there or the situation I was in. I had no job at first, I knew no one but I had a lot of money in the back pocket (all gained from one lovely night at the Gold Reef City Casino), an Opel Corsa that never let me down, except once when I was thinking of driving it off the edge of a cliff and it decided that having an empty tank of petrol was a good idea (such are the by products of Acid; yes children drugs are bad for you), and last but definitely not least, a dress sense that came out of the eighties.

I loved my suits, my bells and checks, my pinstripe and my jeans, my sandals and my badass shades. I loved my leathers, my wide brim hats, my long brown hair, my purple and brown, my trend kill... I loved being a living culture clash. So I guess maybe I didn't dress too eighties, although all too often did I look like a cocktail of David Bowie meeting Kurt Cobain. Either way, I looked good, I felt good, and by god did they notice it.

In order to be successful, one only needs to look it, or so i thought. My clothes, albeit strangely matched, were all designer and cost me a pretty fortune. Versace, Gucci, Italian, Swedish and even German, I had it; I matched it, and pulled it off. On a normal day my wraps would total over ten grand, underwear included, if i was wearing any. when i dressed up i flaunted it, as if my million Rand clothes were part of a set of many... which sure, maybe they were but then that really doesn't matter since my wardrobe consisted of the boot of my car and no walk in cupboard.

Oh… fuck…. What the hell am I saying….? Fuck….. fuck… oh shit….

Oh god its slipping over me again….

Depression doesn’t even come close to explaining this, for this is not it. This is something else, this is them… seeking me… feeling me… pulling me closer, moving right up to me… licking me with their fingers, probing… digging.. their two heads tasting my mind… I’m numb.. oh…. God… no…..

They are here…

Help me…

please….

“This twisted, tortured mess
This bed of sinfulness
Who's longing for some rest
And feeling numb

Whatever I've done
I've been staring down the barrel of a gun”

- Depeche Mode, Barrel of A Gun