Addiction...

I walked down the stairs into the chuch basement, realizing for the first time just how afraid I was. I'm a sicko. Sure, these people have their problems, but me...

God. I'm so weak. Right in front of me, a few steps away, is salvation. But I'd rather take the bus back home, back to the soft computer glow, back to forgeting life in a fuzzy haze of "inventing."

I finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Each inch towards the door slows down time, like walking cautiously into a black hole. No, get a grip. Withdrawl hurts, but I have to grit through it. I can't live like this... the door creaks open without my touch, like a goddamn horror movie. I finally walk out of the cold night air and into an equally cold basement. Except now the air smells like sweat. My brain struggles to see how this is an improvement of my situation.

Someone: "Take a seat." I comply, not really caring who spoke, "I'm Thomas," but finding out anyway. "You are?"

Me:"Notmarkfl... I mean, Mark. Flynn." He smiles. I suddenly want to crack his teeth individually.

Thomas: "It's okay. If you want to use your baker name, that's fine. Now why dont you tell us why you've decided to come" For a while, all I can do is take a deep breath and hold back a tear.

Me:"I post. All the time, pure crap." A tear comes out, like a chink in the armor, a gap in the wall. "I just post, and anno, all day long... I, I don't go to work, I dropped out of school... I walk around my house with a syringe of custard, looking for inspiration." The room spins, but I dodn't care. My body feels stock still even while the universe seems to speed clockwise before me. "For the love of god, Shot-Fun? Puns all of them... my entire life has been one mfd after another, but I keep going back."

It all slows down again, settling, and I'm on the floor, staring at people's feet and discarded gum wrappers. Thomas has a hand on my shoulder, the other holding a cup of coffee.

Thomas: "Calm down. You're with friends here. Lets get you up." I stand on wobbly junky legs and cradle the coffee. Just the smell makes me want to vomit, but the warmth in my hand helps steady me. "See Andre?" Andre waves to be helpful, and says something along the lines of 'hi'. "Andre used to anno on every single entry. He'd spend hours hitting F5 on the main screen. Sally over there? She's an autoboner, but she's learning to stop."

Me: "Who's that? In the corner."

Thomas: "He's the moderator. If he starts to walk over to you, just keep quiet, and maybe apologize to him when he's done."

The spin starts again, stops, and alternates directions for the rest of the night. But every day, I think...

...I'm getting better.

And I have an idea for safer seat belts.