When it comes to drugs and Columbian contraband in general, some choose to abuse rather than recreationally use. Some carefully peruse only to accidentally misuse after a costly interfuse. Some simply refuse to use due to steadfast virtues and religious taboos. It's anyone's provocative prerogative and whether you choose to use or sell, or swear allegiance to the DEA or a drug cartel, in no way does that predetermine whether you are destined for heaven or hell.
What's my take on this issue? I'm teetering on the fence. No, my parent's didn't sell my Lego collection for drug money when I was a child, and no, I've never lost a woman on Spring Break due to drug lord related reasons, and no, the butch police dog who taught my D.A.R.E. class in grade 5 didn't have a profound impact on my drug-related decision making. I've never had to wander down that dark alley because as a child, I stumbled upon a different type of dark alley. A dark alley with strobe lights, glossy hardwood floors, and birthday parties. Where beer specials reveal themselves at midnight. An alley that plays today's best hits and reeks of cigarette smoke. An alley where instead of tying a cloth around my arm prior to getting my fix, I tie my shoes instead. I'm talking about my local bowling alley.
I would go to the bowling alley to get my personal high. Smoke a quick bowl with my Camp Breton Bowlin Bishes as we liked to call it, or just kick it all afternoon rolling fat one after fat one, pulverizing pins. Bowling wasn't always an upper for me. When I first started my score was shamefully low. Discouragingly low. Then I briefly experimented with bumpers. Then I bought my own ball. Then I ditched the bowling alley support bra and faced life with gutters. Once I started to roll my own, I started to get high. Bumper free, I started getting higher than I had ever been. I recall after my first perfect game I couldn't move. I soon developed a tolerance to that full body high, however the one aspect of bowling that never subsided was the munchies. Fortunately I discovered that the stoner dude who worked behind the concession stand had an unhealthy addiction to crack. This proved to work in my favor as I soon learned that I could exchange him drugs for unlimited quantities of nachos, pretzels, and popcorn. He slowly became my dealer for snack, and I, his friend. Never having to focus on my craving I was able to focus on my game pin paving, slowly inching towards my goal of becoming the bowling alley kingpin.
At that stage in my life however, bowling didn't prove to be a lucrative enough endeavor. I fell upon hard times; in order to keep up with my addiction and pay for games I was forced to steal from family members, sell precious heirlooms, and give bowling lessons. Sometimes I would have to whore myself out in the bathroom for a measly quarter so that I could call my parents for a ride home. I finally hit rock bottom when early one Sunday morning I used my tried and true blue ball to break into the bowling alley at 4:30 in the morning to get in a few dimly lit games before church.
What was once a healthy obsession had brought out the worst in me, and I was forced to enroll in a ten frame program sponsored by the PBA (Perturbed Bowlers Anonymous). With my life coach by my side, I stayed clean from all bowling related activities, sans one Silver Strike Bowling incident. And that was only after I saw that someone had replaced me at the top of the leaderboard.
But I've been clean ever since. 299 days. No bowling alleys, no lawn bowling, no skeeball, no bowling arcade games. I have burned all of my bowling jerseys, and donated my bowling shoes to Africa, where there are no bowling alleys. I wear my bowling ball around my neck to serve as a reminder of the adversity I faced, and the uphill battle it has been in an attempt to stay clean.
I will never be able to attend my children's birthday bowling parties, nor will I likely ever have the opportunity again to have a threesome with the handsomest three girls of the Camp Breton Bowling team. But I can't complain. I was able to rise out of the gutter and carry on with my life.
In retrospect, if I could do it all over again, there is no doubt in my mind that I would give bowling another try. Only I would have refused bumpers. Bumpers give you the false confidence that you need to succeed. They sugar coat the sport and motivate the novice in you to continue to play frame after frame after game, shielding you from the harsh reality that is the gutter of life. Had I never played with bumpers I would have gotten discouraged at an early age, said "fuck this", and taken up another past time instead, like Nintendo.
In life there are no bumpers. Face down the gutters. Roll your own fate.
And while I have your attention maybe I can persuade you to meet me in the alley, maybe spare me a match?
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