Pieces of Inebriation – Courting Quentin

Courting Quentin: Backwoods Meth Explicit 

[The following is a protected portion of a new novel by D R Breshears Under the Influence]

What I want to talk about right now, with a stomach full of the best goddamn meatballs and sauce you’ll ever find outside of your grandma’s kitchen and a brain fuzzed nicely from a joint to dull the broken ass leg I’ve been nursing, is, well, just that, my broken ass leg.

I know Zeke told you it’s not really like that, it’s not really broken. Sometimes I think that would be better though. At least you can fuckin’ see whats causing you so much pain, touch it, make it better, ya know? But my leg was broken, that was for sure.

I was just sitting there one day, back from a Charlie run, ready to get high as fuck but pacing myself with a new Cosmo magazine to wait for the rest of the house to get home and partake, and I felt a pain shoot from my knee cap to my toes, my left leg, my fucking taller leg.

The pain lasted about 30 breath-catching seconds and then it all felt like it was on fire, like it was breaking in every spot all at once, the bone aching and splitting and melting all at once, but of course nothing was visibly or physically happening to me.

The pain at the fullest lasted 33 minutes, 33 cocksucking minutes in which I was extremely happy to be alone in the house. The neighbor probably thought a high-pitched Taiwanese whore was being fucked back to Bangkok in here the way I was screaming. It finally subsided into a singular, massive, sharp as a fresh school pencil pain in my shin bone, an oddly warm welcome to the entire leg being broken.

And just like that it was over. Well not over, but there was no more fresh pain, no salt to the wound. It heals like a normal broken bum leg would, you know that bullshit, time heals all. But also what time doesn’t heal drugs do, they forgot that part of the phrase, whoever said it first. I mean you guys get our whole thing with being fucking addicts by now right?

Wait, let’s clear that up: I don’t think we should call ourselves, or let you guys’ for fucks sake, a bunch of random ass drug novel readers, call us addicts. I mean, we do a lot of drugs and need them to survive mentally and emotionally, but we are not fucking physically addicted. We don’t shake and sweat and curse and cry because we need drugs, we do all that pussy shit because it. Fucking. Hurts. Plain and fucking simple. It hurts to be sober.


 

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