A Stockpiling of Disaster

Sometimes all the shit you’ve been ignoring, shoveling aside, amasses itself into something greater than all its individual bowel movements, into an unfathomable mess, and although you’ve noticed its substantial shadow bleakening your outlook at times, you’ve never gone so far as to turn around and face the hulking cess-pool towering over you and even if you had, you never foresaw its disintegration avalanching and engulfing you, every withered piece of shit, every undigested kernel of corn or strip of onion, all those other bowel movements now one horrible stinking sludge, all of it, all at once touching you, blinding you, suffocating you, swarming you; mired in the muck you are swept away, to be washed ashore, on steady ground, only after you’ve dealt with each individual turd and disposed of it the proper way. And there is no septic or city sewer system to utilize. This is your mess and being a highly individualized, personal mess, there are no standard routes of disposal. Your best bet is to compost it into some high-powered manure and grow something anew on top of it. It’s a lifestyle choice consisting of routine maintenance versus cancerous procrastination. Because the alternative is to start a new shit-pile, and though it’ll seem to grow ever so slowly you can bet that one day, when you’re least suspecting it, it will topple and the landslide will destroy, once again, all the hard work on fragile foundations you’ve been trying so hard and frantically to keep together, to keep running, to keep moving forward. But living under the shadow of that type of mountain is playing with fire, is teasing and prodding wild and vicious animals. And you should’ve known better. It was only a matter of time before you were burnt, bit, or buried alive.


(Drugs and Culture)


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