I've written a journal for my whole thirty years, eighteen to here the most interesting. And before, of course. School, friends, childhood. I picked up a pen like other boys picked up footballs. I told my friends recently, I now had a way of publishing it. They all looked nervous. The fun we had. Nobody has a right to have that much fun. A couple of us didn't make it, but what's two deaths for that level of drug consumption. (They probably wouldn't have made it any way, if it wasn't that it would have been a car wreck on booze.)
I completely wore out that joy. Drugs. It just doesn't do it for my like that any more.
I can't do it any more. Don't want to do it. Been there, done that. It's good, great, but there's more to life. It's all consuming. It's something you get bored of, when your thirty something. Don't worry parents, it's just normally a stage we're going through. Rite of passage. Encourage them to do drugs at home, at least you'll know where they are. Although, seriously, my mother is the last person I wanted to see when I was high.
Saturn returns. Grow up, be an adult. Get serious. Get a house... um... get a portfolio.
You could publish it though, asked Jason. You know, the whole journal?
Sure I could, I guess.
He looked nervous.
I laughed.
Jason dealt us all our drugs. He made a tidy sum. He's played the stockmarket ever since, pretty successfully from all accounts.
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