I was on every drug known to man. Every pill, I had swallowed, every powder, I snuffed. I had mixed and matched to the point of explosion, consumed myself into a place no sane mind has entered, and surely from where no sane mind can return. Coke and thizz, shrooms and Jack D, heroin, hash, ketamine, meth, acid, a buttload of mescaline. And, as if all that wasn’t enough to contend with, my bedroom had presently been swept up by a wildfire.

“Christ!” I gasped, “Trapped!”

So I sit. Sat. Sat on my roomy patch of ash, utterly contained in the damned fire, wall fire, flashing, flushing, rushing in panicked waves upwards towards the blackening ceiling. Strange; I almost felt sorry for the flames, until I remembered it was trying to consume me, and sure enough, I saw it edging sneakily towards me, from the sides I couldn’t see.

“You blazing trickster fuck!” I bellowed, “You won’t burn me!”
I felt the best strategy for the present moment was to spin around, keeping an eye on enough of the enfolding flames at once so as to prevent it from approaching any more. And I did, side-stepping crisply, keeping the orange plumes away and at bay, at least for now.