It’s 2 a.m. and I’m dying. My heart is pounding like an offbeat engine and my arms and legs are numb. I would go to the emergency room, but I did that last week. Just tired of it all. The problem is not methamphetamine. That’s not what killed me. It was the realization that a laugh dies as soon as it stops. I’ve got a bunch of tattoos because they’re the only things that are permanent in my life. Everything else only lasts for the moment, then dies like I am now. I don’t care. I think I must want to die because Iin the past two weeks I’ve had three or four experiences like I’m having now. I can’t take speed any more. I know that and I still do. Stupidity is grounds for death and I’m guilty. I just don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m tired of being let down. I’m tired of depression that starts a minute after ecstacy. I’ve had enough of all the bullshit that follows any sliver of success. I’m sick of the way I can be an asshole even when I’m aware that I am. I’m tired of bills that need to be paid now and checks that come whenever they damn well feel like it. I’m tired of being Corky. I don’t want to be a character anymore. I want to be alone. Soon I will. I don’t want an open casket. I don’t want my friends to eulogize me. I don’t even want a funeral. Just cremate me and snort my ashes. I died a junkie, a drug addict, a person who didn’t have what it takes biologically. I died a lazy son-of-a-bitch, but while I lived I was a good brother, a good friend. I cried at sad movies and loved to read trashy magazines. I was proud of what I had written on speed. I died fully aware that nobody could do what I did better. I’d rather die than be a boring writer, and so I have. My friends and family won’t understand. They’ll say what a waste- he had so much going for him. They just don’t know. Ever since I was 12 years old I dreamed it would be like it is now. I’m a badass fucking writer, but I hate to write. Speed is what did it for me. It made me reach my potential which is all I ever wanted out of life.
- May 4, 1988