Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, compact disc players and electric tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends.

Renton, Trainspotting

I admit it. I'm a junkie, but it's like society that made me that way. I'm the type that takes responsibility and all that shit, but I really didn't know what I was getting myself into at the time. I was fifteen. Fucking fifteen. One of my balls hadn't even dropped yet, and there I was. With a fucking driver's license.

Who the fuck gives a country hick like me the right to guzzle gas at fucking fifteen? My pee & em were no help. First, they gave me the keys to the Chevy Citation. Not bad for sucking gas although it would piss antifreeze in the passenger seat every now and again. When that died, I had my turn at the old El Camino. Each door weight 500 pounds alone. The gas just kept flowing at less than a buck a gallon. No one complained. Even a dos cunt like me could get a hold of a Hamilton for some of that sweet crude. Then came the Luxery Lemans.

The beast got eight miles to the gallon, sat eight comfortably, and I sat right behind the eight ball, getting deeper and deeper. The Hamiltons became Jacksons. I couldn't function without my cruise. My fix. I had to get out of the house, had to go to school, to work, had to cruise Main on the weekends. I couldn't stop. I wasn't even eighteen yet.

When I got out on my own, I sank even lower. No one told me about gas heating. The utility company just sent me a bill every month. I swear, I didn't know care where the heat came from. All I knew is that it got cold in the winter. Sometimes, really cold. I tried places with wood stoves. That got things nice and toasty, but the moment the wood was gone, it got cold again. The world was so cold, and I had to have my heat fix.

Now, it's full blown now. It's my fucking livelihood these days. This oil. This junk. And I'm not talking about the stuff on my food. I like a good olive oil flowing through me on occasion, no complains about that. It's this dinosaur juice. The black tar. The Middle East Moneymaker.

I have two vehicles now. A wee one and a big fat cop cruiser. I love them both. I like a variety with my high, you know. It's the same fix, but it feels different depending on which one I drive. It still isn't enough.

I started working for The Oil Man. I got me a real junkie job as a cab driver. I go on twelve-hour binges now. Just cruising. Looking for rides. Waiting for passengers. I need the fix. I've got to cover this gas. This affliction. Two hundred miles a day. Cruising, craving. This oil, it's no goddamn good for anybody.

Then the oil dealers got together. They had a President in their pocket, and they jacked up the price. It's just another dime a gallon. Then another dime. Then another. Another, another, another, another. Now, it's always a buck more than what I was used to paying. Show me a dealer selling at two bucks a gallon, and I'll show you a line of cars that won't quit. Just to save five bucks, ten bucks, one more Jackson. We're hurting. We need another fix. We've got to cruise. Jesus saves, but Exxon provides.

Then, the natural gas dealers jumped on the price hike. Suddenly, dealers are telling me it's my fault that I'm so cold. My windows aren't insulated enough. There's seepage under my door. The price jumped. For the same fucking skag oil heating I've always paid for. Suddenly, it's cold again, and the dealers are telling me it's my fault. They get their cut, and I'm left shaking. No one told me it was going to be like this when I got my driver's license. Fifteen was such a long time ago.

Now, the Prez says I'm addicted. Sure, throw salt on an oily wound. Everyone points at me. They say look at the junky. Look at him cruise. Disgusting.

So why do I still do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you: the job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the compact disc player and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three-piece suit, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die.

Chris Jungle can't find any methadone for oil.