The Second Step

I got kicked out of rehab.

Have no doubt about it, those professionals discovered my public depravity here in the sideshow circus tent, and showed me the door. Why, do you ask? Because I committed the cardinal sin of portraying myself as a recovering drunk and crackhead, on the run from persecution from all directions. I know, unimaginable. Now, you'd think after some seventeen weeks of group therapy and well over $1,000, I might be shown some semblance of consideration before being summarily dismissed from my drug-addiction recovery program. And I was. In fact, they dawdled and debated for over a week, taking more of my money and time before dropping the axe on my neck. Sound sincere about helping people recover from their "disease"?

I didn't think so, either.

And if you're wondering who "they" are, trust me, "they" know. They are those judgemental pricks and conservative narrow-minded counselor-types who wedge your personality and habits into a psychological template. They are the book people. They are, on occasion, the religious folk who know no other way, and practice those principles on all their affairs by forcing you into a room full of drunks. Albeit recovering drunks, but drunks nonetheless. And then, at our finest moment, we're told to learn a new little dance that consists of 12 steps, under the close scrutiny of complete strangers and some well-schooled fucker who wants to know everything about you. Your drugs. Your childhood. Your sex life. Your medical history. And above all else, your relationship with God. So try to imagine, if you will, spilling your guts into their notebook bucket, listening to all that banter and lecture, having what amounts to therapeutic intercourse with a trained professional. And then, get told to get dressed and get out.

Oh, and leave the money on the table.

Clean and sober? Yup. Dancing those 12 steps? Sure. Resentful? You bet your sweet ass. Resentful enough to share this little tale with half a million apathetic bastards, knowing word might just get around to those good rehab specialists. But how can they kick me out again?

Let me tell you how. On this fated day, I'm appointed to stroll into the office of the very counselor responsible for my dismissal. This afternoon, I'm gonna spend a long hour with that woman, and we're going to fuck with words. And I'm going to thank her afterwards, for kicking my ass out of their little program. I'm going to tell her that I'm still driving this freak show tour bus of a website, that I've got 80 days without substance, and that if I hadn't been given walking papers, I might have never gotten it. That my purpose, our purpose, is not to stumble around this globe in search of the story, drink myself blind, and survive a crippling addiction to cocaine. Our time is borrowed, and with every drive down the highway and unprotected fuck, burning cigarette and empty shot glass, we are killing that time. We board airplanes and crawl Bourbon Street, work the long hour and stare at the television because we are afraid. Afraid of mirrors and our hands, the possibility that we be something more than mothers and fathers, the fact that tomorrow might be just like today and the only difference between January and July is a few letters.

We are self-centered, egocentric, inconsiderate fucks that give no more thought to the car in the neighboring lane than the person before us in the checkout lane, hoping only that the line moves faster so we can get back to nothing. And by nothing, I mean a life without a tangible objective. You might sell yourself on the idea that your life is glorious and exciting, that you're commited to your children and your career, and your life has meaning. I say bullshit. An insane person does the same thing, over and over again, in hopes of a different result. And all of us, every one of you, does the same thing over and over again, every fucking day. You drive down the same streets, leave the house at the same time, fuck the same woman in the same position, watch the same television shows, hit the same website, vacation in the same cities, smoke the same crack rock, drink the same beer in the same bar. And exactly what result are you hoping for?

This one?

You've been seeking a power greater than yourself this whole time, as if you had a clue.