Bad boy, bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? ---COPSAnswer: Scream and bellow and cackle till dawn. Scream until your dental fillings shake loose. Bellow out a chunk of lung. Cackle until we've AAAAALLLL gone stark raving mad. ---Mudhead
Recovering drug addicts need chaos. They need it to keep their minds off what they really want. There are a lot of recovering drug addicts here at U.S. Vets Westside Domiciliary where I live, so there's a lot of chaos. How does one attain chaos in a structured, sober living environment? Through noise. Lots of noise. All day and half the night noise. Junker car honking and revving, TV blaring, mouth cackling, loud talking, giggle bellowing chaos.
Empty minds need to fill the space with noise. My quad mates choose television and voice level competition as their tools to chaos. The minute they walk in the quad, if the TV is not already blaring, they flip it on and crank it up.
Late at night, they fall asleep in front of the boob tube. Late at night, they sit in the quad ignoring the TV's trumpeting noise while they talk louder and louder and louder to each other about whatever is the least important news of the day.
If they're sleeping in their rooms and you turn off the blaring TV in the quad's common area, they'll come out of their room and turn it on again so they can sleep and be all pissed off you tried to shut off their noise tit. That's what noise is to them: their tit of comfort.
When I first arrived here, I thought the loud talk competitions in the various quads were fistfights and ghetto mayhem. I thought the late night domino slamming and name calling in the break room were gunfights between rival gangs.
"SSSLAM!! YOU MUTHAHFUCKA! TAKES DAT!!"
"BITCH! SSSSLAM! SLAMM! I GOTS YER SORRY ASS!"
And then there's the incessant cackling. Wicked Witch of the West, filthy dirty old man nasty-ass wet cackling that makes you think you've accidentally wandered into the lobby of the fourth level of hell: the masturbating pedophiles insane asylum.
Incessant. Incessant. Cackling near and far. Echoes of wet cackling and domino slamming and psychological bitch-slapping and the roar of a hundred television sets and Marines in the courtyard "HooWhaing" and whooping like Indians on the warpath.
Chaos: a recovering drug addict's paradise.
Empty minds need to fill the space with noise. My quad mates choose television and voice level competition as their tools to chaos. The minute they walk in the quad, if the TV is not already blaring, they flip it on and crank it up.
Late at night, they fall asleep in front of the boob tube. Late at night, they sit in the quad ignoring the TV's trumpeting noise while they talk louder and louder and louder to each other about whatever is the least important news of the day.
If they're sleeping in their rooms and you turn off the blaring TV in the quad's common area, they'll come out of their room and turn it on again so they can sleep and be all pissed off you tried to shut off their noise tit. That's what noise is to them: their tit of comfort.
When I first arrived here, I thought the loud talk competitions in the various quads were fistfights and ghetto mayhem. I thought the late night domino slamming and name calling in the break room were gunfights between rival gangs.
"SSSLAM!! YOU MUTHAHFUCKA! TAKES DAT!!"
"BITCH! SSSSLAM! SLAMM! I GOTS YER SORRY ASS!"
And then there's the incessant cackling. Wicked Witch of the West, filthy dirty old man nasty-ass wet cackling that makes you think you've accidentally wandered into the lobby of the fourth level of hell: the masturbating pedophiles insane asylum.
Incessant. Incessant. Cackling near and far. Echoes of wet cackling and domino slamming and psychological bitch-slapping and the roar of a hundred television sets and Marines in the courtyard "HooWhaing" and whooping like Indians on the warpath.
Chaos: a recovering drug addict's paradise.
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