I watched the movie Praise while bombed off my face on codeine tablets late the other night. I like the codeine tablets. They make me able to laugh at things, and when I get real tense in the shoulders they help me relax. I am worried about my kidney or liver though, and my piss in the morning is real yellow. Sometimes I get a pain in the right side of my body down near my stomach, but I don’t know if that’s because of the codeine tablets or not. You can’t wank with the codeine tablets in you because you don’t feel like it. You go around the next day with real red eyes that have a glassy surface to them too.
I island-hop between chemists to get the tablets. The chemist-brand ones are the cheapest, but I can’t seem to find them lately. I don’t know if they are still making them or what. The next-cheapest brand has a blue-and-yellow cover and they have 9.7 milligrams of codeine in them, and 500 milligrams of paracetamol, too. The doctor told me the paracetamol is more dangerous than the codeine for the liver or kidney. I tried taking codeine and Nurofen, but the Nurofen gave me stomach cramps.
Sometimes I go into a big song and dance about why I need the tablets at the chemist and tell them something about having lower back pain or whatever. Sometimes I realise it’s better if I don’t say anything because they will probably think I’m making a big show for a reason. I do have lower back pain, and it is sometimes so bad that I have to take the tablets, but mostly I just take them to bomb myself out of the place.
It’s nice taking them in the afternoon because they work well with the afternoon sun going down. The outside and inside light mix well and everything looks yellow and golden. The sunlight coming off the window panes of the big office buildings looks absolutely amazing. The sunlight coming off chrome chairs and hand railings and the marble looks amazing, too.
The only drawback I can see is that one day my liver or kidney might explode, but I don’t feel it happening soon. The tablets can taste a bit dry going down and are best swallowed with a sweet soft drink with ice. It takes about fifteen minutes to half an hour for the initial six tablets to kick in, and if you want to keep going till midnight, another six to eight tablets will do the trick. It’s not the recommended dose, but it hasn’t harmed me yet.
I used to go to uni but I couldn’t handle being around the cheeky white cunts there, even with the tablets in me. Everywhere I looked there was some young, smart-ass white cunt and his woman walking around looking like they owned the world. If me and my cousins ever cornered them in our neck of the woods we’d wipe the smile completely off their fucking faces, that’s for sure. We’d complete their education for them, all right—HECS-free, with Honours!
And the subjects were fucked there, too. I had to write an essay about a magic ring that makes you invisible when you wore it. Well the cunt wouldn’t make you invisible if you didn’t wear it, would it? Invisible! I thought to myself and stared around the room. The cunts can’t see me as it is. What the fuck do I need a ring to make me invisible for? I wrote the poxy piece anyway, bombed outta my mind on my talcum-tasting tablets, and handed it in thus:
The Ring of Gyges would add sweet legitimacy to my existing invisibility. From birth until now I have been living under an assumed identity, sentenced to a cell in the minds of white people to serve my time as a human being bereft of complex feelings and thought. I would happily wear the Ring every day for the blessed relief at being stared through by shop assistants, bank tellers, teachers and policemen—for good reason!
So enthralled by my newfound freedom—at being able to walk around in the land of my ancestors free from the mental construction of others—I wouldn’t feel the inclination to rape, murder, maim, annoy, tickle, tackle or fight with anyone at all. Oh please, give me the Ring of Gyges. And could I have one each for my grandmother and grandfather too? God knows they’ve waited long enough to be stared through with good reason. Though my grandfather may want to decapitate a few cow cockies and the owners of timber mills and bean paddocks, and my grandmother may lift clothes from the Salvos and Vinnie’s, I’m sure they would escape conviction. They’ve lived so long with social invisibility that no jury would find against them simply because no one would be able to locate them! In fact, their legal indiscretions would crystallise their existence in the eyes of the jurors.
Maybe I should do all manner of nasty stuff with the Ring of Gyges? Perhaps I could rape, pillage and plunder, destroy and rip asunder all manner of goods, laws, customs, men and women, so that I too could be brought before a judge and jury to argue my case: though not one of guilt or innocence—but of existence!
‘Here I am, your Honour,’ I’d plead. ‘I’ve read everything from Ernest Hemingway and Ralph Ellison to Bret Easton Ellis—and not only do I lead a fictional existence which would do justice to the above authors, I still can’t get courteous counter service at the Niagara Cafe in downtown Bega!’
The cafe staff can’t see my existence because I always present a profile similar to that of a single page turned side-on. With only a hair’s breadth to work with they never get a chance to actually see me. Could you imagine what they would see if a whole legal judgment was devoted to me? Especially if I appealed all the way to the High Court of Australia!
How silly I’ve been in thinking that my new-found invisibility would separate me from prejudice, fear, loathing, hatred, misrepresentation, horror, agony and ugliness. I have my real identity to worry about, and that depends on making myself visible at all costs—doesn’t it?
And the simple, institutionalised professor gave me an HD for it, too! He said he had never read anything like it before. I told him he’s never met anyone like me before. I also told him that there’s a whole army of us invisible ones out there to contend with, and just because we’re bombed out of our minds most of the time doesn’t mean we can’t see. Hell, I think the reason we get so wasted is because we see too much! We’ve read all about Carl Jung’s concept of Individuation and Oscar Wilde’s little theory on Individualism and all the other little theories put together, but we don’t buy it. And the reason we don’t buy it is because no-one else is investing their spiritual capital in it, either. Everyone seems to be spending their other capital on mobile phones, wide-screen TVs, hair-removal techniques, microdermabrasion technology and footwear that Starsky and Hutch wore back in the seventies. So why follow those poor, lost lemmings over the consumer cliff?
Actually, none of the black brothers I know have read Jung, or any other psychol- ogist for that matter, but most of them do go wild a lot of the time—especially when they get the drink and drugs in them. I’m the only simple black idiot in the whole family who’s read as widely as the whites. So much so that I find myself bored shitless whenever I go back home and have a yarn with my mob. What a predicament! Education that leads not to personal emancipation—but to greater alienation! A person might as well run down the road and never come back, as my mum would say.
And that’s why I like my crazy codeine crunchies: it sets my black sense of humour free because it’s the only thing left in me that’s truly mine. Everything else has been overthrown. Don’t we now walk and talk like our white brothers and sisters and wear the same clothes as well. Hell, even our desires have been colonised! I wonder how much internal territory we have surrendered over the years, and how much we have kept for ourselves. How much is truly ours? (You can guess how this sort of talk goes down with the brothers back home.)
So let my kidney blow, I say, and let the other organs follow as well. I’ll become an organ donor tomorrow just to make sure of it. I’ll even donate my eyes to some young clone from the suburbs. I’ll make sure they are glazed over before the transplant takes place. No-one will know the difference.