The Irony of Dying on Your Birthday:

And yes, that is indeed the title to a song by a poppy-screamo-metal band that I have spent WAY TOO MUCH time listening to over the last 2 weeks.

Oh yeah, AHEM! I'm back. Or something that might sort of resemble being "back".

God, this blog took a serious turn for the worse over the last month or so.

Let me say this, for those that are wondering, Yes, I am indeed still alive. No, I was not struggling with any form of writer's block. What I have been dealing with is more than I would wish on my most hated foe.

So here it goes, the story, the way I see it, and the way I want it told. To any and all who have played a part in this, I apologize for involving you in my mess. There I go again, apologizing. Fuck. I feel like Larry David over here.

Friday, September 11, 2009 (what an interesting day to choose to change my life ha!) I went to visit the tattoo shop. Not to get a tattoo, mind you, not at all. I went there to visit with my cousin, bullshit a little, and most importantly, I wanted to get some of that fancy carbon paper they use to transfer the drawing to the skin. I had this genius plan that it would work on canvas, and I had this pretty rad picture I drew sitting on my desk at home, just waiting to be painted.

So there I sit, chowin down pain killers like m&m's to comfort myself from the sense of loneliness and destitude that I have been wallowing in for the last several weeks when all of a sudden, I get the genius idea that I'm gonna get a new tattoo. At this point, I have no fucking clue what this tattoo will be, where it will go, or why I will get it, but nonetheless, I'm getting it.

I settle on the phrase "The Truth Shall Set You Free" over my "heart" or what, at that point, was left of it. So after the hustle of "how much" and alladat, I'm sittin in the chair, not feeling a thing, as I have been, for the last year or so, and 45 minutes later, I get up, go home, and take a look at my genius new insignia. For the record, I forgot the carbon paper all together, and couldn't for one second tell you what conversations I had, and with whom, or what, if anything, those conversations were about.

I go to sleep, alone, as I have been for the last month or so with the aid of my little yellow femme fatales. And no, I'm not talkin about petite asian masseuses, I'm talkin about these stupid little pills I've been force feeding myself to cover up the scars of emotional trauma under the guise of a fairly severe back injury I suffered back in high school.

Sleep is an excellent thing. So excellent, in fact, that I decided I was going to sleep the entire weekend away. Every time I woke up, I just took another handful and passed right the fuck back out. This went on until Sunday Morning...

The bottle is empty.

What will I do now?

That, my dear friends and followers, is when it hit me. I go to the bathroom, take a shower, and read the new ink permanently tattooed into my skin. The shit hit me like a stone Mason's hammer whilst building the Temple of Solomon (sorry, I watched a SHIT LOAD of History Channel in the numerous days to come).

"The Truth Shall Set You Free".

What a fuckin' concept.

The assessment of my life came at the urging from my mother. "You've been locked up sleeping for 40 hours straight, the fuck's your problem?"

And there it is folks.

**Time to get Honest**

I have a severe addiction to pain killers. One that ultimately had planned on sending me to an early grave, that, by this point in my life (Sunday night, not Today), didn't seem so bad.

What the Fuck? Awwwwww Hell Nah. I ain't goin out like that.

Get Real here.

So, Sunday Night I decided to clean up the act and cut the bullshit.

Despite the urging's of family members and other close confidants I said FUCK REHAB.

I am a grown ass man with the strength and will power to get thru ANYTHING.

The next Nine days of my life would prove to be the most difficult days I have ever been thru, or, for that matter, may EVER go thru.

I will not be specific in dosage amounts for sake of comparison to you or your friend's pill habits, suffice it to say, there was a LOT.

I'll do you a favor now and spare you the details of what was set to transpire, but this person I have been and was slowly turning into permanently was going to get the fuck gone, and your boy would be standing on his soapbox triumphant once again.

I can do this...

Whew.

Here I stand today, after 9 days of an agonizing detox coupled with the thrill of taking a loss in the realm of love, proving to myself, first and foremost, that I am capable of functioning without the use of those little crutches.

I guess that just about sums it up.

In retrospect, maybe this post should have been called Sunday Morning? Eh?

Bump that. Young Ollie in the building, and bout to shit all over the internets as soon as I get my strength back.

Thank you.

P.S. There is no chance I would have gotten thru this without the help of a few select individuals. No name droppin' tho, just know, without you, shit wouldn't have happened. LOVE.

I'm almost Back...

-Kevin M. Smith.