Things definitely got out of control for a while.
Overnight wealth can do that if you’re an idiot.
One time I was so whacked on amazing blow I
thought I could see snakes crawling up my wall,
dozens of them, freaking me out so much I had
to go hide in the closet and do some China White
to bring me down. Finally after a couple of hours
I started to cool out enough to peek through the
slats in the closet door. Fuck! They were still there.
Wired, I called one of my drug buddies, String-Vest.
“String-Vest,” I said. “There’s fucking snakes all
over the place and I’m freaking out here buddy.”
“That’s because you own dozens of fucking snakes
dude. They’re real. You’re not tripping. Be cool.”
And the crazy thing was, String-Vest, who happens
to be an even bigger drug fiend than me, was right:
there were snakes all over the place, but they were
my pets and I fucking loved those little fuckers.
All’s that happened was I had had some sort of
blackout. Forgot who I was. Forgot where I lived.
Forgot that I owned a tonne of serpents, forgot I was
famous for it, a regular Hollywood Doolittle, y’know?
The funny thing was, I called String-Vest up the
next three nights saying the exact same thing until
finally he came over and helped me finish off the
mountain of blow, if only to shut me up about those
goddamn snakes. But, y’know, it was the late 80s
Drugs and snakes were just part of it all, y’know?