Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television.
Choose washing machines, cars… compact disc players and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health… low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed-interest mortgage payments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suite on hire|purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Chose D.I.Y. and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows… stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all. Pissing your last in a miserable home; nothing more than an embarrassment… to the selfish, fucked-up brats that you’ve spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
But why would I wantto do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life.
I chose something else.
And the reasons?
There are no reasons.
Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?