D.C. Fuller
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RUDE, CRUDE and SOCIALLY UNATTRACTIVE, Meth Monster is the autobiography of a 25 year meth user from the cradle to the gutter. Chronicling the manic decline on the downbound train, spiraling to the bottom of the abyss of meth addiction and the lives and life lost to the lifelong psychotic episode that is the life of a crankster. The 11 year battle with depression and overcoming the desire to return to the vaccuum of meth use and a look at the reasons meth is the most addictive and all-consuming drug ever created by man to enslave men and reduce them to walking deadmen. NO ONE GETS OUT ALIVE AND THERE ARE MORE WAYS THAN ONE TO DIE!!!!!
Born one of the people your mother warned you about. Lost in place for 25 years under the influence of meth, breaking all the rules for fun and profit. The consummate loner, even when with someone, acqainted with many, known by and knowing no one. Riding the downward spiral of extreme drug use and meth addiction all the way to the bottom before giving up and getting clean. Staggering thru years of repressed depression and the mental dead zone that meth withdrawl brings. Finally after 12 years clean being able to tell the world about the all consuming vaccuum of meth addiction and the life and lives wasted in pursuit of that eternal buzz. Hopefully METH MONSTER will be as close as you get to meth and the lives wasted by it. By the way, still breaking all the rules that won't bend, it's in the blood.
"KNOW YE, THIS WAS THE KINGDOM OF KICKS, SPEED, BIKES, WEED AND CHICKS. ALL HOPE WAS LOST, ALL YE WHO ENTERED HERE!"
I'd lain down to rest on my pile of rags just before sunup after many hard days of tweaking. When I laid down I got a strong odor of unwashed body and crank. I couldn't remember the last time I'd bathed, but the crank smelled good. I slept the sleep of the damned, not really sleeping just laying still even though my mind was screaming around at warp three inside me. I'd made a bed from a pile of old mattresses and rags, my sleeping bag and poncho liner, in what used to be the main bedroom of the dilapidated main house that was my home. The house looked like a bomb'd hit it and continued to hit it every day. Every inch of the floor was covered in trash from picked over lives; the ceiling had fallen in in many places because the roof leaked like a sieve. There was broken glass from alcohol bottles and windows, broken needled rusty rigs, ceiling debris and all kinds of filth to wade thru to get to one of the only places where the roof didn't leak. It was there that I awaited my trip to hell. In the middle of the wind whipped rainy nights of that January and February's rainy season I lay there wired staring into the darkness wishing for death or anything to deliver me from this place. When there wasn't any dope to do, the days without food were sorely felt and the depression that took over was so deep and dark that dying would've been an improvement. Laying on that pile of rags in the dark or the light, watching the rain pour in from everywhere soaking everything around my little dry spot, wondering how much further down I could go, how I ever got here and how I'd ever get out was all there was to do. At 7:00AM on February 23rd that question was answered when every door was kicked the rest of the way off it's hinges and every broken window was broken again as cops from five different departments rushed in guns drawn, screaming orders. They jacked me up, stuck some pants on me, stuck my feet in some boots and marched me and the shotgun outside. A few minutes later a cop threw my jacket on top of me and that was how I was taken to the Malibu substation for booking.
"THE WORST DAY CLEAN, IS BETTER THAN THE BEST DAY WIRED!"
