biography, of sorts

The name Jackson Smith is a pseudonym and a bad one at that. You didn’t honestly think I’d tie my real name to these blatant stories of illegal activities, did you? Not that the stories written here are in any way true. Lies, all lies. Why on earth would any sane person chronicle their use of illicit substances in a public forum?

I was born in the late 70’s and grew up among the tragic fads of valley girl speech and big hair and pegleging your jeans. Some people, first and foremost my father, would look eagerly to my unstable, broken home childhood for a place to blame my recent deviant behavior. Personally, I blame a certain charismatic young man who introduced me to the joys of Absinthe and clove cigarettes. Later, I would be introduced to LSD, which was really the turning point for me, but absinthe was definitely my “gateway drug”. If it wasn’t for the absinthe, the cloves, and my love for this new life I saw opening up before me, a life of excitement, irreverence, wit and new beginnings, I wouldn’t be here spewing this garbage.

I live in a conservative state in the south surrounded by god fearing, beer guzzling patriots. It won’t take you long to figure out just how much I don’t belong here. I lived a normal American life for a while before deciding it wasn’t for me and ditching tradition for a life of deviance. I’ve never been happier.

I’m not your typical drug addict, pot head, high school dropout. I consider myself a “functional addict”, though I hate to claim an addiction to any one substance. I take what things come my way. I’m addicted to experience, to sitting back and feeling my perceptions change, to analyzing my body and brain’s reactions to the things I ingest. Despite that, I have a normal life. I’m in graduate school. I work. I have a relationship and a child. I’m responsible. If you saw me on the street, you wouldn’t even notice me.