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User Journal

Journal Journal: My friend Harry

This ought to piss off the slashbots a bit:

As with most people who end up trying either of these drugs, The 'Basics' came first, or the type of drug got harder as time went on, or as I'd tried all the others, or something. I must say, though, that I'd wanted to try all drugs, even Heroin and Coke, when I was about 15. Not right then, but at some time in my life. The only anomaly in the 'normal' dope, acid, speed, coke, smack line came when I stole some morphine and pethidine from my mum at 15. She is a doctor, and a friend and I had some at my then girlfriend's house(!) She broke up with me the next day, and I was so upset that I smashed all the rest of the ampoules, and didn't really think about it much until I was 18. I had a bad trip at 18 which nearly killed me. I had taked about 50-60 trips before this, but on this night had been drinking, taking speed and smoking pot, then had 1/2 a tab. I flipped out and ended up breaking into a gun store in an attempt to commit suicide, and was hauled out by 2 armed, guns drawn police officers, after pointing the shotgun I was wielding at one and telling him 'You're fucking dead'.
After hospital, where my Dad is still a prominant doctor, and I was hauled screaming at the top of my lungs through casualty, I was at a bit of a loss. I wanted to take drugs, with my friends, and be 'cool', but certainly wasn't keen for more psychedelics. The answer arrived in the form of morphine. Where I live, there isn't much heroin (restricted to an older hardcore, and v. small individual shipments (a few g's - an oz), so the most commonly abused opiod is morphine tablets, mixed up and whacked up.

Anyway, my friend, who was dealing a lot of pot, gave me this morph, and I loved it - though there was the answer to the 'coolness' problem too. I never got a habit on morph, but by the time next year came around, I had used a fair bit. Then off to Sydney for Uni. I had heard that you could buy Heroin off the street there, and within about a fortnight, I was off to cabramatta, to buy my first 'cap of many. I tried it, loved it, and for the next few months, went out to score a few caps of the vietnamese every fortnight or so.

I really wanted to find a local dealer though. It was a 2-3 hr train ride out to cabra and back, and I knew that the nearby suburbs were packed with smack if you knew where to find it. Finally I did, in the form of an old punk couple, who lived in a flat at the back of a barely functional store in a basically silent road, in a quiet area. I felt a lot better going there to score that the harshness of doing deals on the street in Cabra, even if the value was a little less. By the end of that year, when I went home for the holidays, I hadn't really had a habit, but now had a serious girlfriend, and was doing well at Uni.

It's amazing in retrospect how long it took me to really fuck up my life. I survived second year, although by the end of the year, I'd had plenty of habits, and was really in the 'binge and crash' cycle. I'd survived a few serious OD's, been revived by Narcain and Ambulance once, and my parent's knew I was using smack, as one night, I had scored a quarter oz ($2100) for a friend, and made a gram or so for myself, which was a lot, at the time. After taking heaps, I woke up after basically passing out and had a bit of trouble breathing. I drank some water, then started coughing, went to the sink, and coughed up some blood. then some more blood, then vomited heaps of digested blood, and coughed up more blood. So I called the ambulance, and spent a week or so there. They are not really sure why it happened, it could have been cardiopulmonary oedema (fluid on the lungs), or aspiration pneumonia (breathing in my own vomit).

I left college after second year, which was really the honeymoon period with smack. I didn't rip people off, I even made money by doing the occasional big deal, and didn't use enough to have to stop my Science degree, and I was totally in love with my girlfriend, who used occasionally, but was a bit wary of the path I was taking.

Third year the shit started to happen. I lived with two of my best friends for the first 9 months. I was starting to scam my parents and friends, sell or hock my stuff, borrow and steal to get dope, and I basically got hooked. I moved back to college with my girlfriend in about september, and stayed there, I moved in having been 'given' my old dealers business, after he was busted. He asked if I wanted to take it on. Of course I did, and I knew my flatmates wouldn't stand me dealing, so I worked it so I was dealing there for 1 day when I moved back to college, with about 20 regular customers! I must have been totally crazy to think I'd get away with that, as college is a VERY close community. I only lasted about three weeks dealing, as I just used too much of my stock myself. So I wnt from a $100 a day to a $500 a day habit, with no other gain, except a warning from the head of college that I was a suspected dealer and user.

I somehow struggled through a month or so until the end of year party, when my friend Tom came over. I had been best friends with Tom since I was about 7. In the past 2 years, he'd moved to Sydney and go work in the Computer industry. He and I had used drugs together since each of us started taking anything, and as he earned $40-60,000 a year, he came round on fridays and bout enough smack for both of us. Well this friday, I'd already had 2 $50 caps, and was just feeling OK enough to go to the party. Tom called me, so I told him to come over. These parties involve the drinking of heaps of kegs of beer and basic running amok of the whole college, so we started drinking, then hooked up with the man (by now I had delivery connections) and bought a quarter (gram). We had also dropped, then shot up, a few valium each, and drunk a shitload, after having a hit of some of the smack.

A lot later, ater drinking continously in the meantime, we stopped by to have the rest of the smack. Feeling fine, partying on, and as usual, talking the sort of crap to each other that only a 15 year friendship brings. We had the dope, and I nodded off. I woke up and Tom was dead. i knew as soon as I saw his grey face that this was true, but I'd revived him in the past, so tried to now. It didn't work. The ambulance confirmed it. I remember giving him mouth-to-mouth and hearing a gurgling in his lungs. He'd been sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, and had spewedbeer and breathed it in, drowning from an OD of Smack. We used to joke about Harry Scagnetti, a fictional mafia dealer, who sold the 'killer' smack. It seemed Tom finally met him.

The death of my best friend fucked me up, but it's not an excuse for what happened, I was already going down the path, Tom dying probably just pushed me further and faster down it. After that, I used as much and as often as possible to block it out, which worked at first. After a few months, I had lived in, and been kicked out of two houses I roomed in, with complete strangers, after stealing their money and posessions to buy smack. My friends were wary, and my girlfriend, who I still respect and care for, even if she doesn't speak to me, broke up with me after her family took me in to stay there after I had no-where else, and after ODing at 3am on a wednesday night, and waking the house up being revived, I stole from them too. Her mother's jewelry and her brother and father's camera's (a favourite of mine, the police asked me later whether eight (the number of different ones I'd pawned) cameras was a lot to own!). I finally ended up in a flat by myself, but at least by now I had really good dealers, who delivered, and sold the strongest and biggest caps I'd ever seen.

To this point, Harry had cost me tens of thousands of dollars (around $100 - $150 000 to my count), the trust of my friends and some friendships, the trust of my parents, a relationship which I cared for uncountably much, and the life of my best friend. A pretty bad brother by any definition. I just kept on using though. My parents had been so good to me, they'd put me through four hospital detoxes and a ten thousand dollar six week detox in Melbourne. I'd forged checks worth about ten thousand, and had even rung their bank manager and convinced him to transfer thousands to my account, pretending to be my father. Being doctors, they were on the ball with medical knowledge too, although my Dad put it well when he said he now knew more about heroin than he ever wanted to! They took me home again, in a third attempt to get me started on naltrexone, the opiod antagonist/blocker, which had emerged as a 'wonder cure' again. Take it, and you can't get high (true, it feel like you're shooting water, VERY frustrating). The trouble is, it lowers your tolerence back to how you were before you'd ever tried smack.

They sent me back to Syndey after 1 week, of my 'easter break', although I hadn't been to Uni for months. I scored on the way back from the airport, but about a week later, I'd taken some serapax to help me sleep while on the naltrexone, as it gave me jitters (horrible stuff, really), and had a hit of smack. I woke up on the floor, where I'd slid from the bed 3-6 hours earlier, but I couldn't move my left leg. I thought it was just pins and needles, but I really couldn't move it. It really started to hurt, and I had to get the ambulance men to bring the police and knock the door open to get me. I had been lying kneeling/leaning against the bed, with my right knee pressing all my weight on my left leg, for 3-6 hours, and the muscles had started to die, my kidneys to fail, and in less than another hour I would have had a heart attack and died. After six weeks in hospital, most of which was just a haze of pain, I could walk again.

5 years later I'm home and on methadone, but almost ready to get off. I've left out the six months of smack and coke use that came after hospital, where they convinced me to get on the methadone program. Shooting coke cut through methadone, but in six months, I was worse into the coke than five years of smack, and got myself a six month suspended sentence and three year probation as well, but that's another story.

Why I'm still alive, I don't know, or only God knows, if you prefer. I can't say I would never take those drugs, if I had the time again, but I would do anything to bring Tom back, only I can't. I'm now addicted to methadone, and about 30kg overweight, with no girlfriend and no best friend. I have councelling with my Doctor, who in the 30 or so people I saw in legitimate attempts to end my drug addiction, is the best, every week. I finished my science degree, and I'm still alive, but it has been a big price for the time I spent with Harry.

User Journal

Journal Journal: The pleasures of opium

Another good C&P troll, I expect:

It is so long since I first took opium, that if it had been a trifling incident in my life, I might have forgotten its date: but cardinal events are not to be forgotten; and from circumstances connected with it, I remember that it must be referred to the autumn of 1804. During that season I was in London, having come thither for the first time since my entrance at college. And my introduction to opium arose in the following way. From an early age I had been accustomed to wash my head in cold water at least once a day: being suddenly seized with toothache, I attributed it to some relaxation caused by an accidental intermission of that practice; jumped out of bed; plunged my head into a bason of cold water; and with hair thus wetted went to sleep. The next morning, as I need hardly say, I awoke with excruciating rheumatic pains of the head and face, from which I had hardly any respite for about twenty days. On the twenty-first day, I think it was, and on a Sunday, that I went out into the streets; rather to run away, if possible, from my torments, than with any distinct purpose. By accident I met a college acquaintance who recommended opium. Opium! dread agent of unimaginable pleasure and pain! I had heard of it as I had of manna or of Ambrosia, but no further: how unmeaning a sound was it at that time! what solemn chords does it now strike upon my heart! what heart-quaking vibrations of sad and happy remembrances! Reverting for a moment to these, I feel a mystic importance attached to the minutest circumstances connected with the place and the time, and the man (if man he was) that first laid open to me the Paradise of Opium-eaters. It was a Sunday afternoon, wet and cheerless: and a duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy Sunday in London. My road homewards lay through Oxford-street; and near "the /stately/ Pantheon," (as Mr. Wordsworth has obligingly called it) I saw a druggist's shop. The druggist -- unconscious minister of celestial pleasures! -- as if in sympathy with the rainy Sunday, looked dull and stupid, just as any mortal druggist might be expected to look on a Sunday; and, when I asked for the tincture of opium, he gave it to me as any other man might do: and furthermore, out of my shilling, returned me what seemed to be real copper halfpence, taken out of a real wooden drawer. Nevertheless, in spite of such indications of humanity, he has ever since existed in my mind as the beatific vision of an immortal druggist, sent down to earth on a special mission to myself. And it confirms me in this way of considering him, that, when I next came up to London, I sought him near the stately Pantheon, and found him not: and thus to me, who knew not his name (if indeed he had one) he seemed rather to have vanished from Oxford-street than to have removed in any bodily fashion. The reader may choose to think of him as, possibly, no more than a sublunary druggist: it may be so: but my faith is better: I believe him to have evanesced,{1} or evaporated. So unwillingly would I connect any mortal remembrances with that hour, and place, and creature, that first brought me acquainted with the celestial drug. Arrived at my lodgings, it may be supposed that I lost not a moment in taking the quantity prescribed. I was necessarily ignorant of the whole art and mystery of opium-taking: and, what I took, I took under every disadvantage. But I took it: -- and in an hour, oh! Heavens! what a revulsion! what an upheaving, from its lowest depths, of the inner spirit! what an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had vanished, was now a trifle in my eyes: -- this negative effect was swallowed up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened before me -- in the abyss of divine enjoyment thus suddenly revealed. Here was a panacea -- a [pharmakon nepenthez] for all human woes: here was the secret of happiness, about which philosophers had disputed for so many ages, at once discovered: happiness might now be bought for a penny, and carried in the waistcoat pocket: portable ecstasies might be had corked up in a pint bottle: and peace of mind could be sent down in gallons by the mail coach. But, if I talk in this way, the reader will think I am laughing: and I can assure him, that nobody will laugh long who deals much with opium: its pleasures even are of a grave and solemn complexion; and in his happiest state, the opium-eater cannot present himself in the character of /Il Allegro/: even then, he speaks and thinks as becomes /Il Penseroso/. Nevertheless, I have a very reprehensible way of jesting at times in the midst of my own misery: and, unless when I am checked by some more powerful feelings, I am afraid I shall be guilty of this indecent practice even in these annals of suffering or enjoyment. The reader must allow a little to my infirm nature in this respect: and with a few indulgences of that sort, I shall endeavour to be as grave, if not drowsy, as fits a theme like opium, so anti-mercurial as it really is, and so drowsy as it is falsely reputed. And, first, one word with respect to its bodily effects: for upon all that has been hitherto written on the subject of opium, whether by travellers in Turkey (who may plead their privilege of lying as an old immemorial right), or by professors of medicine, writing /ex cathedra/, -- I have but one emphatic criticism to pronounce -- Lies! lies! lies! I remember once, in passing a book-stall, to have caught these words from a page of some satiric author: -- "By this time I became convinced that the London newspapers spoke truth at least twice a week, viz. on Tuesday and Saturday, and might safely be depended upon for -- the list of bankrupts." In like manner, I do by no means deny that some truths have been delivered to the world in regard to opium: thus it has been repeatedly affirmed by the learned, that opium is a dusky brown in colour; and this, take notice, I grant: secondly, that it is rather dear; which I also grant: for in my time, East-India opium has been three guineas a pound, and Turkey eight: and, thirdly, that if you eat a good deal of it, most probably you must -- do what is particularly disagreeable to any man of regular habits, viz. die.{2} These weighty propositions are, all and singular, true: I cannot gainsay them: and truth ever was, and will be, commendable. But in these three theorems, I believe we have exhausted the stock of knowledge as yet accumulated by man on the subject of opium. And therefore, worthy doctors, as there seems to be room for further discoveries, stand aside, and allow me to come forward and lecture on this matter. First, then, it is not so much affirmed as taken for granted, by all who ever mention opium, formally or incidentally, that it does, or can, produce intoxication. Now reader, assure yourself, /meo periculo/, that no quantity of opium ever did, or could intoxicate. As to the tincture of opium (commonly called laudanum) /that/ might certainly intoxicate if a man could bear to take enough of it; but why? because it contains so much proof spirit, and not because it contains so much opium. But crude opium, I affirm peremptorily, is incapable of producing any state of body at all resembling that which is produced by alcohol; and not in /degree/ only incapable, but even in /kind/: it is not in the quantity of its effects merely, but in the quality, that it differs altogether. The pleasure given by wine is always mounting, and tending to a crisis, after which it declines: that from opium, when once generated, is stationary for eight or ten hours: the first, to borrow a technical distinction from medicine, is a case of acute -- the second, of chronic pleasure: the one is a flame, the other a steady and equable glow. But the main distinction lies in this, that whereas wine disorders the mental faculties, opium, on the contrary (if taken in a proper manner), introduces amongst them the most exquisite order, legislation, and harmony. Wine robs a man of his self possession: opium greatly invigorates it. Wine unsettles and clouds the judgment, and gives a preternatural brightness, and a vivid exaltation to the contempts and the admirations, the loves and the hatreds, of the drinker: opium, on the contrary, communicates serenity and equipoise to all the faculties, active or passive: and with respect to the temper and moral feelings in general, it gives simply that sort of vital warmth which is approved by the judgment, and which would probably always accompany a bodily constitution of primeval or antediluvian health. Thus, for instance, opium, like wine, gives an expansion to the heart and the benevolent affections: but then, with this remarkable difference, that in the sudden development of kind-heartedness which accompanies inebriation, there is always more or less of a maudlin character, which exposes it to the contempt of the by-stander. Men shake hands, swear eternal friendship, and shed tears -- no mortal knows why: and the sensual creature is clearly uppermost. But the expansion of the benigner feelings, incident to opium, is no febrile access, but a healthy restoration to that state which the mind would naturally recover upon the removal of any deep- seated irritation of pain that had disturbed and quarrelled with the impulses of a heard originally just and good. True it is, that even wine, up to a certain point, and with certain men, rather tends to exalt and to steady the intellect: I myself, who have never been a great wine-drinker, used to find that half a dozen glasses of wine advantageously affected the faculties -- brightened and intensified the consciousness -- and gave to the mind a feeling of being "ponderibus librata suis:" and certainly it is most absurdly said, in popular language, of any man, that he is /disguised/ in liquor: for, on the contrary, most men are disguised by sobriety; and it is when they are drinking (as some old gentleman says in Athenaeus), that men [eantonz emfanixondin oitinez eidin]. -- display themselves in their true complexion of character; which surely is not disguising themselves. But still, wine constantly leads a man to the brink of absurdity and extravagance; and, beyond a certain point, it is sure to volatilize and to disperse the intellectual energies: whereas opium always seems to compose what had been agitated, and to concentrate what had been distracted. In short, to sum up all in one word, a man who is inebriated, or tending to inebriation, is, and feels that he is, in a condition which calls up into supremacy the merely human, too often the brutal, part of his nature: but the opium-eater (I speak of him who is not suffering from any disease, or other remote effects of opium) feels that the diviner part of his nature is paramount; that is, the moral affections are in a state of cloudless serenity; and over all is the great light of the majestic intellect. This is the doctrine of the true church on the subject of opium: of which church I acknowledge myself to be the only member -- the alpha and the omega: but then it is to be recollected, that I speak from the ground of a large and profound personal experience: whereas most of the unscientific{3} authors who have at all treated of opium, and even of those who have written expressly on the materia medica, make it evident, from the horror they express of it, that their experimental knowledge of its action is none at all. I will, however, candidly acknowledge that I have met with one person who bore evidence to its intoxicating power, such as staggered my own incredulity: for he was a surgeon, and had himself taken opium largely. I happened to say to him, that his enemies (as I had heard) charged him with talking nonsense on politics, and that his friends apologized for him, by suggesting that he was constantly in a state of intoxication from opium. Now the accusation, said I, is not /prima facie/, and of necessity, an absurd one: but the defence /is/. To my surprise, however, he insisted that both his enemies and his friends were in the right: "I will maintain," said he, "that I /do/ talk nonsense; and secondly, I will maintain that I do not talk nonsense upon principle, or with any view to profit, but solely and simply, said he, solely and simply, -- solely and simply (repeating it three times over), because I am drunk with opium; and /that/ daily." I replied that, as to the allegation of his enemies, as it seemed to be established upon such respectable testimony, seeing that the three parties concerned all agreed in it, it did not become me to question it; but the defence set up I must demur to. He proceeded to discuss the matter, and to lay down his reasons: but it seemed to me so impolite to pursue an argument which must have presumed a man mistaken in a point belonging to his own profession, that I did not press him even when his course of argument seemed open to objection: not to mention that a man who talks nonsense, even though "with no view to profit," is not altogether the most agreeable partner in a dispute, whether as opponent or respondent. I confess, however, that the authority of a surgeon, and one who was reputed a good one, may seem a weighty one to my prejudice: but still I must plead my experience, which was greater than his greatest by 7000 drops a day; and, though it was not possible to suppose a medical man unacquainted with the characteristic symptoms of vinous intoxication, it yet struck me that he might proceed on a logical error of using the word intoxication with too great latitude, and extending it generically to all modes of nervous excitement, connected with certain diagnostics. Some people have maintained, in my hearing, that they had been drunk on green tea: and a medical student in London, for whose knowledge in his profession I have reason to feel great respect, assured me, the other day, that a patient, in recovering from an illness, had got drunk on a beef-steak. Having dwelt so much on this first and leading error, in respect t opium, I shall notice very briefly a second and a third; which are, that the elevation of spirits produced by opium is necessarily followed by a proportionate depression, and that the natural and even immediate consequence of opium is torpor and stagnation, animal and mental. The first of these errors I shall content myself with simply denying; assuring my reader, that for ten years, during which I took opium at intervals, the day succeeding to that on which I allowed myself this luxury was always a day of unusually good spirits. With respect to the torpor supposed to follow, or rather (if we were to credit the numerous pictures of Turkish opium-eaters) to accompany the practice of opium-eating, I deny that also. Certainly, opium is classed under the head of narcotics; and some such effect it may produce in the end: but the primary effects of opium are always, and in the highest degree, to excite and stimulate the system: this first stage of its action always lasted with me, during my noviciate, for upwards of eight hours; so that it must be the fault of the opium-eater himself if he does not so time his exhibition of the dose (to speak medically) as that the whole weight of its narcotic influence may descend upon his sleep. Turkish opium-eaters, it seems, are absurd enough to sit, like so many equestrian statues, on logs of wood as stupid as themselves. But that the reader may judge of the degree in which opium is likely to stupify the faculties of an Englishman, I shall (by way of treating the question illustratively, rather than argumentively) describe the way in which I myself often passed an opium evening in London, during the period between 1804-1812. It will be seen, that at least opium did not move me to seek solitude, and much less to seek inactivity, or the torpid state of self- involution ascribed to the Turks. I give this account at the risk of being pronounced a crazy enthusiast or visionary: but I regard /that/ little: I must desire my reader to bear in mind, that I was a hard student, and at severe studies for all the rest of my time: and certainly had a right occasionally to relaxations as well as the other people: these, however, I allowed myself but seldom. The late Duke of Norfolk used to say, "Next Friday, by the blessing of Heaven, I purpose to be drunk:" and in like manner I used to fix beforehand how often, within a given time, and when, I would commit a debauch of opium. This was seldom more than once in three weeks: for at that time I could no have ventured to call every day (as I did afterwards) for "/a glass of laudanum negus, warm, and without sugar/." No: as I have said, I seldom drank laudanum, at that time, more than once in three weeks: this was usually on a Tuesday or a Saturday night; my reason for which was this. In those days Grassini sang at the Opera: and her voice was delightful to me beyond all that I had ever heard. I know not what may be the state of the Opera- house now, having never been within its walls for seven or eight years, but at that time it was by much the most pleasant place of public resort in London for passing an evening. Five shillings admitted one to the gallery, which was subject to far less annoyance than the pit of the theatres: the orchestra was distinguished by its sweet and melodious grandeur from all English orchestras, the composition of which, I confess, is not acceptable to my ear, from the predominance of the clangorous instruments, and the absolute tyranny of the violin. The choruses were divine to hear: and when Grassini appeared in some interlude, as she often did, and poured forth her passionate soul as Andromache, at the tomb of Hector, &c. I question whether any Turk, of all that ever entered the Paradise of opium-eaters, can have had half the pleasure I had. But, indeed, I honour the Barbarians too much by supposing them capable of any pleasures approaching to the intellectual ones of an Englishman. For music is an intellectual or a sensual pleasure, according to the temperament of him who hears it. And, by the bye, with the exception of the fine extravaganza on that subject in Twelfth Night, I do not recollect more than one thing said adequately on the subject of music in all literature: it is a passage in the /Religio Medici/{4} of Sir T. Brown; and, though chiefly remarkable for its sublimity, has also a philosophic value, inasmuch as it points to the true theory of musical effects. The mistake of most people is to suppose that it is by the ear they communicate with music, and, therefore, that they are purely passive to its effects. But this is not so: it is by the re-action of the mind upon the notices of the ear, (the /matter/ coming by the senses, the /form/ from the mind) that the pleasure is constructed: and therefore it is that people of equally good ear differ so much in this point from one another. Now opium, by greatly increasing the activity of the mind generally, increases, of necessity, that particular mode of its activity by which we are able to construct out of the raw material of organic sound an elaborate intellectual pleasure. But, says a friend, a succession of musical sounds is to me like a collection of Arabic characters: I can attach no ideas to them. Ideas! my good sir? there is no occasion for them: all that class of ideas, which can be available in such a case, has a language of representative feelings. But this is a subject foreign to my present purposes: it is sufficient to say, that a chorus, &c. of elaborate harmony, displayed before me, as in a piece of arras work, the whole of my past life -- not, as if recalled by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated in the music: no longer painful to dwell upon: but the detail of its incidents removed, or blended in some hazy abstraction; and its passions exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed. All this was to be had for five shillings. And over nd above the music of the stage and the orchestra, I had all around me, in the intervals of the performance, the music of the Italian language talked by Italian women: for the gallery was usually crowded with Italians: and I listened with a pleasure such as that with which Weld the traveller lay and listened, in Canada, to the sweet laughter of Indian women; for the less you understand of a language, the more sensible you are to the melody or harshness of its sounds: for such a purpose, therefore, it was an advantage to me that I was a poor Italian scholar, reading it but little, and not speaking it at all, nor understanding a tenth part of what I heard spoken. These were my Opera pleasures: but another pleasure I had which, as it could be had only on a Saturday night, occasionally struggled with my love of the Opera; for, at that time, Tuesday and Saturday were the regular Opera nights. On this subject I am afraid I shall be rather obscure, but, I can assure the reader, not at all more so than Marinus in his life of Proclus, or many other biographers and auto-biographers of fair reputation. This pleasure, I have said, was to be had only on a Saturday night. What then was Saturday night to me more than any other night? I had no labours that I rested from; no wages to receive: what needed I to care for Saturday night, more than as it was a summons to hear Grassini? True, most logical reader: what you say is unanswerable. And yet so it was and is, that, whereas different men throw their feelings into different channels, and most are apt to show their interest in the concerns of the poor, chiefly by sympathy, expressed in some shape or other, with their distresses and sorrows, I, at that time, was disposed to express my interest by sympathising with their pleasures. The pains of poverty I had lately seen too much of; more than I wished to remember: but the pleasures of the poor, their consolations of spirit, and their reposes from bodily toil, can never become oppressive to contemplate. Now Saturday night is the season for the chief, regular, and periodic return of rest to the poor: in this point the most hostile sects unite, and acknowledge a common link of brotherhood: almost all Christendom rests from its labours. It is a rest introductory to another rest: and divided by a whole day and two nights from the renewal of toil. On this account I feel always, on a Saturday night, as though I also were released from some yoke of labour, had some wages to receive, and some luxury of repose to enjoy. For the sake, therefore, of witnessing, upon as large a scale as possible, a spectacle with which my sympathy was so entire, I used often, on Saturday nights, after I had taken opium, to wander forth, without much regarding the direction or the distance, to all the markets, and other parts of London, to which the poor resort on a Saturday night, for laying out their wages. Many a family party, consisting of a man, his wife, and sometimes one or two of his children, have I listened to, as they stood consulting on their ways and means, or the strength of their exchequer, or the price of household articles. Gradually I became familiar with their wishes, their difficulties, and their opinions. Sometimes there might be heard murmurs of discontent: but far oftener expressions on the countenance, or uttered in words, of patience, hope, and tranquility. And taken generally, I must say, that, in this point at least, the poor are far more philosophic than the rich -- that they show a more ready and cheerful submission to what they consider as irremediably evils, or irreparable losses. Whenever I saw occasion, or could do it without appearing to be intrusive, I joined their parties; and gave my opinion upon the matter in discussion, which, if not always judicious, was always received indulgently. If wages were a little higher, or expected to be so, or the quartern loaf a little lower, or it was reported that onions and butter were expected to fall, I was glad: yet, if the contrary were true, I drew from opium some means of consoling myself. For opium (like the bee, that extracts its materials indiscriminately from roses and from the soot of chimneys) can overrule all feelings into a compliance with the master key. Some of these rambles led me to great distances: for an opium-eater is too happy to observe the motion of time. And sometimes in my attempts to steer homewards, upon nautical principles, by fixing my eye on the pole-star, and seeking ambitiously for a north-west passage, instead of circumnavigating all the capes and head-lands I had doubled in my outward voyage, I came suddenly upon such knotty problems of alleys, such enigmatical entries, and such sphynx's riddles of streets without thoroughfares, as must, I conceive, baffle the audacity of porters, and confound the intellects of hackney- coachmen. I could almost have believed, at times, that I must be the first discoverer of some of these /terrae incognitae/, and doubted, whether they had yet been aid down in the modern charts of London. For all this, however, I paid a heavy price in distant years, when the human face tyrannized over my dreams, and the perplexities of my steps in London came back and haunted my sleep, with the feeling of perplexities moral or intellectual, that brought confusion to the reason, or anguish and remorse to the conscience. Thus I have shown that opium does not, of necessity, produce inactivity or torpor; but that, on the contrary, it often led me into markets and theatres. Yet, in candour, I will admit that markets and theatres are not the appropriate haunts of the opium-eater, when in the divinest state incident to his enjoyment. In that state, crowds become an oppression to him; music even, too sensual and gross. He naturally seeks solitude and silence, as indispensable conditions of those trances, or profoundest reveries, which are the crown and consummation of what opium can do for human nature. I, whose disease it was to meditate too much, and to observe too little, and who, upon my first entrance at college, was nearly falling into a deep melancholy, from brooding too much on the sufferings which I had witnessed in London, was sufficiently aware of the tendencies of my own thoughts to do all I could to counteract them. -- I was, indeed, like a person who, according to the old legend, had entered the cave of Trophonius: and the remedies I sought were to force myself into society, and to keep my understanding in continual activity upon matters of science. But for these remedies, I should certainly have become hypochondriacally melancholy. In after years, however, when my cheerfulness was more fully re-established, I yielded to my natural inclination for a solitary life. And, at that time, I often fell into these reveries upon taking opium; and more than once it has happened to me, on a summer-night, when I have been at an open window, in a room from which I could overlook the sea at a mile below me, and could command a view of the great town of Liverpool, at about the same distance, that I have sate, from sun-set to sun-rise, motionless, and without wishing to move. I shall be charged with mysticism, behmenism, quietism, &c. but /that/ shall not alarm me. Sir H. Vane, the younger, was one of our wisest men: and let my readers see if he, in his philosophical works, be half as unmystical as I am. -- I say, then, that it has often struck me that the scene itself was somewhat typical of what took place in such a reverie. The town of Liverpool represented the earth, with its sorrows and its graves left behind, yet not out of sight, nor wholly forgotten. The ocean, in everlasting but gentle agitation, and brooded over by a dove-like calm, might not unfitly typify the mind and the mood which then swayed it. For it seemed to me as if then first I stood at a distance, and aloof from the uproar of life; as if the tumult, the fever, and the strife, were suspended; a respite granted from the secret burthens of the heart; a sabbath of repose; a resting from human labours. Here were the hopes which blossom in the paths of life, reconciled with the peace which is in the grave; motions of the intellect as unwearied as the heavens, yet for all anxieties a halcyon calm: a tranquility that seemed no product of inertia, but as if resulting from mighty and equal antagonisms; infinite activities, infinite repose. Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for "the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel," bringest and assuaging balm; eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath; and to the guilty man, for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure from blood; and to the proud man, a brief oblivion for wrongs unredress'd, and insults unavenged; that summonest to the chancery of dreams, for the triumphs of suffering innocence, false witnesses; and confoundest perjury; and dost reverse the sentences of unrighteous judges: -- thou buildest upon the bosom of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities and temples, beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles -- beyond the splendour of Babylon and Hekatompylos: and "from the anarchy of dreaming sleep," callest into sunny light the faces of long-buried beauties, and the blessed household countenances, cleansed from the "dishonours of the grave." Thou only givest these gifts to man; and thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh, just, subtle, and mighty opium!

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Journal Journal: The erotic adventures of Eddy and Claire

It may not have served me very well as a GCSE coursework piece, but I think that I can still get some use out of my story as trolling material. As such, I will be posting it here, along with any other potential C&P trolls I like the look of. At present it is unfinished, and I shall update the page when I decide to finish it.
Well, here it is:

On the fourth of June, 1994, a boy was born in Mason's Hill Hospital. His name was Edward, but he preferred Eddy. Five years later his sister was born. Her name was Claire. Eddy always had a certain fascination with Claire, but he was not sure why. He was not sure why for two years, when suddenly, he had a revelation.

The one thing Eddy wanted more than anything in the world was his sister's skin. He would often have dreams about feeling her skin brush seductively against his, of letting caressing its subtle contours, and of letting his fingertips wander across its soft surface, examining its delicate texture and sampling its inviting warmth.

Eleven years hence, these thoughts still had not left him. The dreams still pervaded his sleep, growing more intense with each retelling, until Eddy could no longer contain his emotion. He had had enough of dreaming. Now was the time to act.

Eddy returned to his parent's house at midday. He hadonlyleft a few months ago, several weeks after he turned eighteen, and still had his old set of keys for the front door. Eddy proceeded calmly to the door. He had nothing to fear. The neighbours all knew him, and would not suspect anything was afoot, should they see him. His parents would both be at work, and Claire, now thirteen, would be at school. No one would be home for another four hours. Plenty of time.

Eddy opened the door, and proceeded up the stairs. He paused, realising his error in leaving the door unlocked. His parents neverleft the door unlocked. Eddy locked the door, and content that nothing else was amiss, continued on his way. He entered Claire's bedroom and hid under the bed. While hiding, Eddy reached into his trousers and drew his weapon.

Eddy's weapon was ten inches long, and surrounded by a smooth shin. It had a slight bulge on the end, and the moistness of Eddy's hand made it glisten in the light. It was a flat sap with a sping in the handle. Eddy had chosen the device with a view to knocking Claire out rapidly, yet without too great a probability of killing her. It was also one of the relatively few weapons that would do the job without damaging her skin. He had worked too hard to ruin everything now.

That thought in his mind, Eddy was determined not to let anything stand in his way. But for that to happen, he would have to remain highly alert for anything that might serve as a warning. Any indicator that something was wrong. A bird singing in the tree. The neighbour's cat falling off a fence, struck by a stone from their son's catapult. Nothing out of the ordinary. A pack of degenerates walking past. Could pose a problem. Sirens in the distance, steadily drawing closer.

Suddenly, Eddy found hiself siezed by doubt. Were those police sirens? Eddy would be unable to do his work in the presence of policemen. Eddy calmed himself. He would succeed, no matter what.

A fire engine raced by, seconds before Claire crossed the road. She walked slowly towards the door, then hesitated. She always had to turn the key twice in the lock, why not today? Sha dismissed the concern as paranoid and hurried upstairs. It was a hot day and she felt most opressed wearing her school uniform, so she wasted no time in removing it. Suddenly Claire froze. What was that sound? Where was it coming from? Behind the door? No. In the wardrobe? No. Under the bed?

Eddy had been quite enjoying the show, as the groing pool of semen on the floor attested to, but now he stopped dead, wondering what to do now. Claire stared at him, Eddy stared back. Claire drew back and was about to scream, when Eddy pounced on her and clubbed her over the head. Eddy bent down and placed his hands on her chest, partly to see if she was still breathing, and partly for sexual gratification. Upon satisfying himself that she was still alive, he let his fingers linger there for a little longer, then dragged the body away.

It was a long drive home for Eddy, and he would have to remain watchful for police cars. He would never be able to explain away the unconscious girl in the boot of his car. Fortunately Eddy was not going home, but to the nearest slaughterhouse. He would need their facilities dearly.

Claire woke up naked, hanging upside down in a meat locker. There was an unholy gleam in Eddy's eyes as he picked up a skinning knife from the table and approached her. Claire fainted.

Eddy knew how to skin animals. He had studied how to for just such an occasion. He knew the lines along which to cut, and he knew how to adapt them for a human. Eddy let the blade caress her thigh for a moment, then began to apply pressure. The blade bit into her flesh, as Eddy drew it upwards. Minutes later, Claire was dead. Her organs fell onto the floor, but the floor was otherwise quite clean, and so Eddy did not need to place anything beneath her to prevent them from becoming tainted. They would be soon enough, anyway.

Eddy squatted down over the pile of offal, becoming more and more aroused with every second. Suddenly he lost all control, and ejaculated in his pants. How embarrasing. He continued, however, until he heard footsteps approaching. He grabbed a cleaver from the table, and waited by the door.

The guard wandered down the corridor, wondering what he was doing there-what would anyone break into a slaughterhouse for?

To be continued

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Journal Journal: Banned again! 2

That's the second website I've been banned from. Interesingly enough for exactly the same reason as the first-you'd have thought people would want to know how to make high explosives, judging by the number of bombings going on these days. Still, I guess that's the fucking liberal pussy shiteaters for you, bunch of ingrates.

Maybe someday I'll go back there and crapflood them to hell. I only hope that my programming skills will be up to it.

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