I woke up this morning and something felt off, I couldn’t quite figure it out so I went to see a doctor. Being Canadian this meant sitting in a gross room full of coughing non-English speakers and ‘holy shit how do you even get that fat‘ people, fortunately it only took about six days for the doctor to ever so briefly see me. She took out her stethoscope and did her thing, finally she delivered the bad news: “I’m afraid you have a disease, you’re addicted to crack now.” If that scenario sounds absurd, I assure you the only part I embellished was the diagnosis – I’m actually addicted to rage. To be clear, UrbanDictionary defines addiction as ‘a compulsive habit that people obtain through repetition,’ the American Medical Association however, defines addiction as a disease, so there you go, no self control is a certifiable disease now apparently. One of the many perks of living in our post-facts world is that you don’t have to take responsibility for any of your own actions anymore, nothing is your fault! Rather than complain, the opportunist in me said play the game: become certifiably retarded. I thought to myself, if addiction is a disease (and therefore presumably covered under disability laws), and you can become addicted to everything from gambling to video games to orgies and boner pills, then surely a Dr. like myself can navigate my own way into a made-up excuse for a total lack of self-control. I pondered over my morning screwdriver and the Irish coffee I have for brunch, by my lunchtime rum and coke I thought I had an answer but it didn’t become clear to me until the third bottle of wine I drink every night: I would become
an alcoholic hopelessly plagued by an incurable disease. I broke the bad news to my human resources counselor the next morning. I said “I have a disease now, you’ll need to accommodate me.” Of course she needed more than my word, but I was prepared: I placed a beer on the desk between us and she watched in awe as the beer slowly defied gravity and hovered into my hands, she could see the desperation as I tried in vain to fight it away. “No!” I said, “damn you alcohol! I resist you!” but you can’t reason with a disease, it opened my palm and forced itself into my hand, then it lifted itself against my pursed lips and forced its way through until I drank it all, completely unable to stop myself.
Bullshit aside (and it is bullshit), addiction is weak shit. I completely understand using drugs as a coping mechanism, this western world desperately needs an ass-kicking for its own good, but at a certain point if you really can’t cope anymore to the point where you can’t even keep a menial labor job, do you really have any value to society? Out west where the bums are mostly Natives (and the mouth wash is behind lock and key, I’ll let you math that one out yourself), it’s literally too dangerous to go out in certain parts of the city. Anyone who’s been to Vancouver can tell you why you should never stop anywhere on Hastings, the bums will walk up to your car, they will try to smash your windows, they will stab you for a few dollars if it means another hit of fentanyl. Calgary is better, but still feels trashy as fuck, especially around the infamous Crack Macs. I lost track of how many times some drunk piece of shit hassled me for a smoke or spare change, funny how you’re always a ‘brother’ when it possibly means a cigarette, but you’re a racist if you don’t have any change. And who the fuck carries change around anymore anyway? If those bums think they’re getting paper money out of me while my rent keeps going up, they’re fucking crazy. “But Dr.,” you say, “that’s the problem! It’s a mental health issue!” Well of course it is! If you can define thinking of and wanting hot premarital sex every day as a disease, I’m pretty sure at least half the population is diseased. How can you possibly argue with that kind of logic?
I’m pretty sure if we just install some needle disposal bins then people will use them, because obviously they use trash cans.
There’s entirely too much sympathy going around for people that don’t deserve it. It’s dangerous to keep pretending everybody out on the street is some poor lost soul who just needs to take a pill to get better and it’s everybody else in society who’s more worried about their own taxes keeping them from getting the help they need. Is it really a surprise that nobody wants co-op housing near them? I live down the street from one, I shit you not they recently burned down a neighboring house. That’s to say nothing of the gag-reel of their usual antics [cue Benny Hill theme]: smashing the glass at the bus shelter, running across the road into oncoming traffic (sometimes clutching a baby) when the light is less than 50′ away, an inability to speak without saying ‘fuck’ at least sixteen times per sentence, stealing from and harassing local workers, the dog shit everywhere that never gets cleaned up, and the mountains upon mountains of cigarette butts. Obviously this isn’t anybody’s fault, for all I know there’s some disease that renders you totally incapable of picking up dog shit. What’s the cure for that? I would prescribe a swift kick to the mouth, but for the sake of honesty I should admit I’m not actually part of any medical association. Of course that would also ignore the fact that a lot of these people are simply professional hobos, kind of like gypsies. If you’ve ever worked closely with people like that, if you’ve ever actually lived in an area like that, and if you’ve ever actually been in close contact with that kind of addiction, you know a lot of those people will never be able to help themselves. It’s not as if their families and support are all jaded, miserable assholes like me who cut them off with no remorse, it takes a lot of hard work to really break somebody’s spirit that badly. Once you decide you’re going to eat cat food and listerine for dinner so you can afford your addiction to the celebrity gossip hotline, there’s really no turning back.