97 days and Good Morning Serenity
Addict name Carlton. I am here and I must continue to Thank God for his mercy and guidance thru this place we go thru hell on, because we don’t want to admit this is one step closer to the devils kingdom. The disease is one of his trusted worthless servants that are constantly on guard waiting for a slip up in my guidance program. My thinking is always under siege; my open minded is constantly being challenge to narrow, so that one moment of clarity could be stomp on. If that ever happens, that flame that kept light at my feet for guidance is in serious jeopardy. The moment the idea of using don’t sound bad my willingness is on the verge of dying. The reservations and preparation to use is like machete is always ready for my use to finish chopping my life up. I started it in the beginning and if I recycle that thinking, I know what that Rolette wheel is going to manifest in the end DEATH.
I can’t talk about nobody else, but it is not a coincidence that my story might sound like I am biting someone’s ass off. In actuality detail for detail, the disease has made it possible for many of us to look like identical twins story-wise. The disease doesn’t have a care in the world, who he chose to mimic each other after. I know my story don’t have just dotted I’s and crossed T’s, I done some shit in the beginning that down sized my confidence and spirits tremendously in the end. What I use to like turned into things I never thought I would do. What I use to look like turned into I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. Someone had to tell me I needed a shave, get that crust out your eye, your breathe stink. Yeah, you think I didn’t need to look in the mirror to brush my teeth. I did any way, because I wanted to see if my yellow teeth were going to ever turn white again. I had to be told I needed to do something with my hair. The disease told me put a hat on you alright and I believe that shit. And the women, I messed with, who was supposed to do my hair, like they promised, did it when they got Good and Damn ready. I am only human and yes have resentments with them about that. As long as I keep coming back, that issue will change also.
The program said we will love you until you love yourself. True some will, but others will love you or love to hear what the hell you saying for how ever long you talk or are in their company. If they love you so much then why don’t they try to make friends with you, hug you sincerely, find out how you feel when they can see the pain dripping from your words or in your eyes? What happen to bridging the gap, find out, if you need a ride home or to another meeting? Don’t try to see if you splitting your legs or swinging that lumber, I been talking about myself, but if I am stepping on anyone feet wrap them bitches up, because I am getting ready to start stomping.
It is amazing how I look back and listen too many of addicts and I see a lot of myself. Some I don’t see a lot of themselves in their own story, but the more they share the real self can’t hide. I found that out as I write. I sometimes have to force that shit out of me, because the disease tell me it is embarrassing, but if it was then I shouldn’t have done that shit to begin with. Playboy bitches couldn’t get more naked as my ass. I told the world I am addict, I am always tell them that first. I walk around with my key chains sparkling. I don’t put them in my pocket like I am ashamed of the program. People know who you are, they tell themselves what they want to believe anyway, and until you clarify I’m a Grateful Mother Fuckin addict. Don’t ever forget that when you cross share about me. I also told on those who never were addicted with addict behavior, because of societies label and their thinking you couldn’t tell them nothing that had anything to do with the price of oil in the Middle East. My story constantly is journeying with me on my road to recovery. I can’t remember every single soul I done fucked over, but I got to let my fingers do the walking in my mental rolodex. I don’t want back track and get caught up and get scheduled again, for 12 rounds of bullshit and might get knocked the fuck out this time. FOR GOOD! The state will be air mailing my toe tag wearing ass home in a chicken box, because my disease likes to hand me the stem. Then I use that mother fucker like a machete. And once I get the chopping when I am finished I know it will be even less left to my skinny this time.
I always been a hustler, I grew up in the apple and I was always nibbling at the skin, never cutting my teeth in the game, until I got my affiliation with gangs and then I wasn’t no real gangster, but I was into gang related shit. I wasn’t as bad as I wanted to be and I wasn’t cunning as the mask I had on showed me to be. I was scared most times of getting killed me for some of the shit I was supposed to do. Hell God saved many of people I was sent after or sent somebody after. It had nothing to do with Luck. If they just got their ass whip something more was suppose to happen. I am definitely going to take that one, because I got a turn to live out my own pain, I was inflicting on others. If someone ran or moves what some like to call it, in reality that was a blessing, because death was standing on their doorstep. When it happen to me, I was already being court order to leave NY or I was going find out how to adjust to life on something called RIKERS ISLAND. This is not a country club folks. In no way was I determining to let the turnkey raise me, become one of them thousands of men screaming for attention. No, I didn’t want to be put in the position where I would had to become Chef Ramsey, chopping people up or worst getting my ass grinded up like beef. So I did the next best thing I ran after I got my ass kicked enough in this gang shit. Yes, folks I pack the fuck up and got in my Aunt Car and burned up I-95. I was so scared it literally took me years to think about going back just to visit. I knew I had a contract on my head and it wasn’t anything dealing with a rental center or charge card co. I was wanted dead for some shit I didn’t do and I wasn’t ready yet. Street gangs in NY was nothing like these Kool-Aid boys, we fought like UFC fighter to the bitter ends, hospital bed or caskets, that choice was left up to your fight skills and I am still here. So when I wasn’t running I was scraping – anything goes and you better believe it or die doubting I wasn’t serious. I guess I could either run or fight, I am not going to lie I had to run plenty of times. Sometimes, ducking bullets, while I’m running faster then any USA Olympic team member. In fact they called me Road runner and when I put that ice or pistol in my hand they called me the Terminator. I wasn’t scared, but I wasn’t a dummy to know pain is pain and I couldn’t afford any doctor bills. My pains extended from my youth and torpedo me into adult hood. I land here in B-More-Careful and I learned quickly it wasn’t just the crime I had to be watchful of. I had the drugs, dealers, the cons, pimps, managers like myself I became later on in life, baggy boy pants already was, the faggots, transvestites I got trick by and half way tricked with, and those who make up the under world. But I the wannabe’s was the most infamous ones to watch, because they were just stupid and unaccepted, until I came along. I would groom them motherfuckers. I must be wasn’t a good teacher, because the majority met their end, dead, jail, or strung out. I am still attracted to the lifestyle, but I see where it got me and that was as a result of my best thinking. So you know me using my own mind, is off limits.
It is amazing how in the beginning you feel like Obama do, on top of the world. I started out what I considered big. I had hand full’s of drugs to being delivered wrapped packages of drugs. I was wearing threads, skins, my suits had breasts, my shoes would bite, and they came in flavors and from places I could only see on television. I thought I was the shit taking Grey Hound, Peter Pan, and Trail ways to unseen places, spending large amounts of money. I could take a bitch with me lose her or send her back and trap another one on the fly and bring her ass back to B-more. At the same time, I was using some of the strangest drugs. The names were bad enough, but the feelings made me feel Yay or Nay to want to use it again. I wasn’t afraid of the drugs I was afraid of not being accepted. I had people in cities that would say to people in other cities that man is crazy as a mutha fucker. I was after using some of that exotic shit. How could anyone be normal afterwards? I’m talking about toting canons and waiting on people in some of the oddest places, like their house after using like my life depended on. When I was using I got out of control and yes, I was aware of it, but I was living to hear people talk about me. I thought I was some sort of legend in a Donald Goines book, this shit was what was in my mind and I have to write about me. I really can’t even begin to print some of shit I did with out a Lawyers Guidance personally. As a matter of fact I am going to direct my mind in another direction. I can stay that for my 8th step.
In the beginning it is amazing how you go from selling weight to literally losing weight, like you got the bug. I had something alright, the pipe. I don’t know what it is that make you want to get all this energy and can’t even control the urge. I remember when I was fucking with Shirley that bitch just required I fight, that was something I liked and was use to. Crack turn you into Houdini, you got to be disappearing, pulling rock out of a hat, fuck with a 100’s of tricks just to feel normal and never succeed. I am just talking about me. In actuality yeah it is someone else story, because crack heads don’t venture to far from the crack house. I was definitely on time for the games just too bad I never had the instructions. I swore before God I could play this mother fucker out of position. Hell I shouldn’t have never allowed girls to come over to playpen or let them stay after I fucked with their brains with some of my weirdest fetishes, because they had tricks for me as well. I wasn’t introduced by mistake to some of the shit I took. They just didn’t want to feel alone and I never really knew something so good, voiceless, with a harmless appearance, could hurt your ass so bad in the end. I am sorry but I have to admit I still have resentments against them also, I am normal. Let a mother fucker say I am wrong, ok I will definitely keep coming back, because I am sick as my thoughts. I can’t hold on to secrets in recovery and expect to get the medicine I am crying out for.
I can tell my history better then most, because it is funny to me now, wasn’t funny back then. It was more a mystery of what the hell I am I going to do next. When those oils don’t sell and the cops fucking with you because you live in Baltimore, but you a pirates fan. Yeah I was ripping a new asshole in the black market world and I really wasn’t putting a dent in the market for real. So why the hell was I investigated for making a living? Hell I had a habit to support, a need a roof over our head, food was optional, and I could steal something when nobody was looking. Hell, I could make a sandwich in the supermarket and as long as I didn’t try to take it outside, it wasn’t stealing. After I ate it where the fuck are they going to find the evidence? Fuck the video cameras; I ate in the blind spots. What happens when the people keep running up on u trying to slam you for stealing or selling? Bad thing the drugs they can’t find and it be right there in their hands. God knew these mother fuckers were going be blind. He knew I wasn’t to going to surrender and of course I had to finish putting the finishing touching to painting my horror mural. O so now everyone from women to whomever have became your victim, going for the jugular ain’t a bad choice, until Johnny Law want to ask you some questions. Damn, I thought I was thru with this case, but shit is always open nothing but eyes are shut. After awhile my financial status was looking like my appearance, fucked up. My bank account got robbed by me, my boss fired my ass and I worked for myself. Everywhere I walk to I thought I would get their faster if I hurried up and I still got no where. I was ready dismantling London Bridges, volt by nut, piece by piece. I even stripped the paint off that motherfucker. No joke, it is not required but everyone should laugh at this shit. But how do you go from being a legend, gang related leader chased to B-more, only to get entangled into drug, bitches, yourself, and then thru it all God still accepts you with open arms, but not before he too see how hard headed you are. I can’t deny I’m talking about me, because I don’t know anybody story better then mine. And then I still surprise myself. But what about you start a business in graphic arts only to stop trying to make $80,000 a year or attempting, to passing out pizza menu flyers, door to door at that. Then working for a mother fucker, who is younger, ignorant, arrogant, and at the same time he see more in me then I see in myself. I never knew how degrading I had subjected myself to, because that one more was the only thing I could count on. With a hook of some sort and a pray to God not for surrender, instead not to get burned or get something good was all that mattered. And I learned to put them flyers out like my life depended on it. You couldn’t tell me they weren’t treating me like a crack head, because as long as I got one, fuck what everyone thought! Too day I respect people who bottom takes them there, because I know you couldn’t have started out like that. From hustling drug, videos, movies, socks, incenses, oils, slippers, anything that was found in wholesale stores to in the end passing out mother fuckin flyers.
