Some people have a penchant, a drive, and instinct–if not an overt desire–for self-destruction. you’ve felt it poking your in the gut, gnawing on your brain, moving through your veins like a rodent in a drainpipe. Somehow, though, you’ve never been able to act on it. Not exactly. Not completely. You walk by those tall buildings and gun shops, and the notions flash like sparks. Never been able to do it slowly either. Never had a taste for tobacco. You can deal with the two or three yearly hangovers, but not much more. Cocaine, heroin, speed–they frighten you.
You do the nine to five, but life never feels exactly conventional. Something is missing, and it’s not just financial success. You’ve never really felt plugged in to sting of Christmas lights called the middle class, which is something slightly scarier than hard drugs.
