Hogan Torah’s Autobiography TLDR: Lots of Drugs

The 28 page monster I wrote in 4 days.

Hi. I’m Hogan Torah and I wrote the following under my birth name Logan Mora after a week long meth bender almost 20 years ago. I tried to leave my original writing unmolested but did correct a few things. I read it now and cringe at my writing. Originally titled Who am I, this is part one of three. This is a true story. I’m dedicating this to Loren Toder. I have a lot of dead friends, but no death was as tragic as his.

Today

The other day I overheard a group of close friends talking about me. They said something to the effect of. “Logan used to be such a bright, intelligent, happy guy. Then all of a sudden, he started parting like a mad man. He was all strung out and bitter. He’s doing better now, but what the hell happened to him?”

What happened? What did happen? It’s like this….

TLDR: Lots of Drugs.

When I was an adolescent my family was upper-middle class. I didn’t think my family was rich. My father drove an E class, while most of my other Jewish friends’ fathers drove an S class. It’s not like we were rich. Our cleaning lady came once a week, we didn’t have a live in. We weren’t rich. My parents went out every Saturday night on a date and hired some kid down the street wo watch my sister and I. We didn’t have a live-in nanny. We weren’t Rich.

I did what my mother told me to and that was to get good grades and don’t ever hit people. She was the disciplinarian in my family and was a stay-at-home full time housewife. My father told me that I didn’t have to worry about what I wanted to do with my life because as soon as I was done with high school, I had a job waiting for me at the bank he was president of.

In junior high I hung out with the “nerds.” My social status was very important to me. I so desperately wanted to hang out with the cool kids, but I was never one of them. I might be friends with them but I didn’t belong. When It came time to go to High School I went to Kennedy. All the rich “cool” kids lied about where they lived so that they could go to Granada. I had enough of trying to be one of them so I tried my luck at Kennedy.

I went to a tough a high school where I learned to be tough

When I started high school, I was not hanging out with those guys again. I had befriended a guy who was cool because he was a really good skateboarder and the all the older skaters took him under his wing. On the first day of school when he wanted me to come behind the C building for lunch, I was ecstatic. On the way one of my old friends from jr. high saw me and started walking with us. Skater guy whispered in my ear that my friend could not come with us. I didn’t think twice when I asked my friend if he thought he was hanging out with us. He stood there with a confused look and I kept on walking.

This makes me cool now, right? I’m hanging out with these senior skater dudes. These guys were not Tony Hawk. These guys were Bam Margera. My friend had their respect. I, however was some dorky little 9th grader who couldn’t ride a skateboard that would just stand there and try to be one of them.

They would do every fucked-up thing that you could possibly do to someone in high school. Do you know the definition of swirlee, canned, pansed, wet willy, spit ball, Indian burn, redneck, melvin, snotrocket is. One day one of them snatched my lunch and I finally threw a punch that missed. Then I was picked up and slammed head first on the blacktop. I was knocked out and when I came to there was a crowd of people around me. I tried to get up but a teacher kept me on the ground until a wheel chair arrived. I’m being wheeled to the nurse’s office crying and bleeding.

“What happened to that guy?”

“This fool whooped this kid’s ass.” Told the guy to anyone who asked while wheeling into the nurse’s office. The crying didn’t make me look too cool and my head was throbbing with pain.

Even though by throwing that punch I had earned some respect I didn’t hand around there anymore. I stopped talking to that friend who would watch me being tortured and would laugh. I couldn’t hang out with the nerds because my friend who I dissed had become their new leader. Eating my lunch alone where I wouldn’t be seen was my new crowd. Then I would walk around like I had somewhere to go, avoiding those two hang out spots.

After about 2 months one of the kids I met invited me to play basketball with his crowd for lunch. I never fit in with the jocks because I am horrible at any sport that involves a ball. After a couple of days of this I suggested we not play basketball and just hang out instead. We found a spot-on campus that had not been claimed for lunch and that became our spot. Soon other people that just didn’t fit in with their cliques joined us. I had created my own crowd.

After a while, my friend who I dissed started coming around again. He was my friend again and still is one of my best friends and one of greatest people I know. (eh, no but whatever-HT) We never mentioned what had happened until recently. I don’t think I will ever live that down. I didn’t realize it at the time but after time it became clear what we were. We were Punk.

Tough guy

In summer school that same first year we were watching a movie. A spitball hit me in the back of the neck. I spun around but didn’t know who did it. Another spitball. Then another, and another, and another. I figured out who did it. What was this guy’s problem? I had never met any of these people in this class before.

I never stood up for myself before besides that skater I hit with a half assed punch. Soon other people joined in and before long, half the class (including girls) was shooting spit balls at me. The teacher was reading a book at his desk and didn’t really seem to give a shit. All I could do was put my head down so they couldn’t see me cry. The two-hour class finally ended and I was covered with spitballs I’d estimate that there were about 400 spit balls fired at me during this movie.

The teacher was a lazy fuck who had just finished his masters and was probably not approved for financial aid for his doctorate so was forced to actually work and was too much of a pussy to try and make it in the profession he been studying for. So he goes back to school to teach, but has no idea how to get a class filled with 15 yr old’s during summer to pay any attention to a class they had already taken and gotten a C in and forced by our parents to take classes during this time we should be sleeping. He puts in a movie related to American History (i.e. 1776, Dances with Wolves, Stand by Me, ect….)

I’d ditched and played sick for a couple of days but I went back to this class and I was prepared. I had a hollowed out bic pen and a water bottle. The teacher puts on Tombstone and turns off the lights. One is no match for 20, now they wait for me to turn my head to retaliate. Now they can hit my face. spit balls are spat at rapid rate for another 2 hours.

The spit ball of metamorphosis

This one tough wanna be gangster chews on 3 sheets of notebook paper and runs up behind me and throws it at my neck and the class in laughing their ass off. The movie ended and the teacher is not in the classroom. The lights get turned on and I shoot a spit ball at the gangster kid. He comes right up to me and grabs my wrists. He pulls one of my arms back and up. I put up no fight. He then yanks my wrist towards me and makes me punch myself in the face. I am standing there, about to cry and he looks me in the eye and asks the question. What bitch?

I never went back to that class. I was punked so hard I couldn’t even tell anybody about it. There was only one thing to do. The rest of that summer I worked out every other day for three hours. Every time I thought I couldn’t lift the weight one more time I just pictured that little shit saying what bitch. Every time I didn’t want to do another set, I remembered getting my lunch stolen and slammed and everybody laughing. I used one of those trees with the soft bark as a punching and kicking bad. I would hit it until my knuckles were skinless, then do it some more. Drank protein shakes till I shat cement. That summer started with me being 5’3″ at 98 lbs when school started that September, I was 5’7″ and 130 lbs.

Wimp no more

When I came back to school that next year, I had no problems. It had nothing to do with my size it was the way I carried myself. I never went looking for trouble, but I never backed down again. For example, If someone threw an eraser at me, I threw a chair at them. If someone gleeked on me, I threw a chair at them. If someone wanted to play keep away with my gym shirt and there were no chairs around, I kicked them in the nuts. Fair fight? There is no such thing as a fair fight. Someone is always bigger than the other. You gotta do what you gotta do to.

I finished high school. Everything was going my way. Got a car and the chicks and the body. This is the reason I’m as aggressive as I am, but why did I get so into drugs?

Logan Mora 1997 Hogan Torah

Logan Mora 1997

I loved drugs

At this point in my life I was at the height of my game. (The height of my dickishness. My shit didn’t stink) I was making about 3x what I would of at a real job, tax free of course. I had the all the toys I wanted. Girls wanted to be with me and guys wanted to be me, I thought. Waking up with no obligations is not as great after 3 years. I enrolled in school, pharmacy tech school that is. I learned all about drugs I hadn’t even heard of.

Ok. High school was over and I went on my senior trip to Puerto Vallerta. I hadn’t gotten laid since I’d lost my virginity at 16 and was the only person in our group not to get laid once. I had decided to go to College of the Caucasians due to their Playboy best female student body ranking and because It was the closest to my house. My mother said that she would give me 50 bucks a week if I stopped working because she didn’t want a job to interfere with my studies. I had a new hobby as well, raving!

I had finally found my calling.

Forget about whatever crappy rave you went to in Glendale a decade ago. The year was 1996. It was right at the peak of the acid wave. Raver style was unrefined, it didn’t have a look at so it borrowed from what you last were before coming a raver, i.e. hip hop Adidas wear/Punk hair. Everyone was on hallucinogens so It was very visual oriented. What I loved about it was the fact that people going to a party to know where they were, no web, no Grove Riders.

Someone who was usually me (I actually liked driving on acid. The car and I were one) would drive for 1–2 hours, to dance in a warehouse. There would be this one moment, where the mix and the lights and everybody were building up for the build. You wait for it and….bang! The perfect moment in time. You take a mental picture and try to make that feeling last until next week.

When I came back from Puero Vallerta I learned that my father had a grand mal seizure while I was away. He appeared to be alright and the doctor said that it was probably because of heat stroke or dehydration. That summer my dad was acting a bit strange. He seemed to get angry easier, his coordination was off, and he started smoking a lot more pot.

Something wasn’t right with my dad

It was my 18 birthday and my family and a friend of mine went down to Ventura Blvd. to go to some place that isn’t there anymore. As we were leaving the parking lot dad hit a car while backing up. He then took off and t-boned another car while turning on to Ventura. He threw it in reverse really quick and boned the fuck out. My grandmother, my friend, and myself were screaming and he just had a big smile on his face.

He only had 2 beers and he wasn’t on meds or anything. The weirdest thing was that my father usually slowed down to drive through puddles so he didn’t splash any water on his 18″ rims on his Cadillac STS. I offer to drive but he never EVER would let me drive one of his cars. It wasn’t over yet, he later runs a red and broadsides the side of an SUV. The SUV spins out into a telephone pole and rolls a couple of times. However, this time… HE TAKES OFF AGAIN! Still not letting me drive.

The next day my father and I go out for our usual Saturday afternoon run. Before we get in the car, he gives me the keys for me to drive. He tells me he’s been a feeling little off lately. I agreed. We went to the car wash that we had gone to just about every Saturday since we moved to L.A. While the car was being washed, we went over to Family Fun arcade. He liked Golden Tee and any other sports game, we would always play a shooting gun game together once or twice before we left. Then we would go look at software or a mall or a head shop which started way earlier than it should have.

This Saturday we were going to the driving range. My father was a terrible golfer. Today he was missing the ball completely more often while he was hitting it which was weird. He always connected and the ball always went straight. It only went 150 yards, but every time and straight. One time he fell back into the guy next to him.

It was a quiet ride home.

My mother took my father to the hospital and sure enough it was a tumor. He was operated on 2 days later. All of my parent’s friends in the waiting room with my sister and her boyfriend and me, all alone. I went outside to go for a nice long walk and smoke a Kool. Walks are great when you are making a decision or need your multiple personalities to talk to each other. I thought about what would happen if my father died, what would happen to all of us.

This was not a minor operation. We saw him right before going into the operating room. even though he was 55 he still had a pretty full head of hair that he wore at the same length for the last 15 years. Now He was bald, no eyebrows, scared shitless. What do I say?  I went back into the hospital and my mother, sister, grandma and I were called upstairs.

I was to run back downstairs and tell everyone if the tumor was malignant or benign. So much shit was on my mind I forgot that I didn’t know which one was which. The Doctor says the tumor was malignant and I go running down stairs and tell the 50 people in the waiting room that it wasn’t cancerous. And every one is cheering and hugging and thanking god. My immediate family comes down crying and…. I felt like someone had used my genetic tissue to wipe their ass.

They were unable to remove some of the tumor so they tried a brand-new procedure called the gamma knife and he was the first person ever to have the treatment done. This tickled him pink because he was a tech freak and It was a great anecdote to tell. He was thinking of wring a book about his experience.

It worked though. He made a full recovery within 8 months after his surgery. His hair was growing back. And his original personality had returned. My father was actually happier than ever before. He had cheated death and beaten the odds. He started going to temple most Fridays with my mother, something he hated to do before. My dad was going to live a long happy life.

The End

Nope. Then things got worse.

Hardly. If what you just read made you feel something you may want to get a box of Kleenex. This is has been the most difficult thing I have ever written but I’ve only told but a handful of people this.

While all this is going on, I find it more and more difficult to get up, go to school spend some time outside. My parents weren’t home much so I would get high and watch tv. Then I started getting high and drunk. then I started getting high, drunk, do some lines, pop some Vicodin…ect. My dad was getting free tweed thanks to prop 215 through his insurance.

I started selling a little to my friends and making a few bucks then my friend asked me if I wanted to go in with him on mescaline for 50 cents. We would meet him at the club, come give me a hug (couldn’t resist) Then another friend had sheets of acid for 100 a sheet. His friend then said he could do it for 80 just not to tell the guy I used before. Then that guys friend said he would do it for 60 but I couldn’t tell the other 2 then I met the guy. Then I met the guy who they got it from and he did it for 45 bucks

This guy was the man so he had the power tell those other 3 guys to go fuck themselves. So do the math and consider I sold a page for 80 half for 50 ten for 30 three for 10 one for 5. and averaging 3 pages a week and I made even more with the Weed and microdots. Go to the rave with 100 in drugs, come out about 700 richer. Go every week people know who you are so you don’t do anything but stack cash in your big pants and keep eating and selling drugs till the party is over. Then get more and go to the after party.

Not better

My dad’s hair had grown back and he was feeling better. Then, he started getting angry more frequently again, his driving started getting worse. I realized something was very wrong was the day we went to the mall to buy this golf game for the PlayStation and we came to the escalator. I was walking behind him and he stops and looks at the ascending stairs. My dad slowly planted his foot on the moving stairs and his hand on the hand railing. He reaches out and misses the railing on the other side. He screams as he topples backwards. I was able to catch him before he really hurt himself.

I drove home and it was another very quiet car ride. He was determined though. He had the gamma knife done again and about a month later and was ranting and raving all week about how we were going to the mall and he was going to show everybody that Brady Mora was healed and triumphant once again. After a terrifying drive to the mall he was bragging about how great of a driver.

We go to the arcade and after not shooting a single thing in virtual cop he brags about all the guys he shot. We get to the escalator and after blocking the stars for 5 minutes he gets on and stumbles and I caught him. When we get to the top, I knew there was no way in hell he was going to be able to do this I grab him in a bear hug and lift him up and out of harm’s way. He was furious that I helped him and continued to rant and rave for the entire scary ride home.

I bit my tongue as my father was gloating to my mother about how well he did at the mall. When he wanted me to tell mom about how well he did I couldn’t hold it any longer. I told everyone what really happened. Then I asked my dad how he could possibly think that he was getting better. He looked like he was about to cry. He sarcastically thanks me for my support and says that I am right.

I went upstairs and cried myself to sleep

After the gamma knife the tumor was close to gone, unfortunately close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. The doctors recommended Chemotherapy to get the rest. The cycle ended and the tumor was still there but it didn’t seem to be growing but it wasn’t thinking. Looking back, we were all in denial at that point about the fact that my father was dying, we were so optimistic hoping the next treatment would be the end of this.

A year and a half after his first operation, my father was even worse than before. His driving was terrible and he smashed up his Cadillac pretty bad. After that he stopped driving. He started falling all the time and I would have to pick him up. Because off this my mother would ask if I could stay home in case my father lost his balance again. I agreed and stayed home a lot of Saturday nights. Poor me.

In the scene I was coming up and becoming one of the inner circle.

The promoters and people who threw the party hated my friends and I. They would invest all their time and money on throwing these stupid raves just so they could give you a flyer and say come to “my” party and if you kissed their asses enough they would put you on the guest list. After spending every night for the last 2 months outside of clubs and parties passing out flyers until 6 am it is time for the party.

The promoter throwing the party would 2,000 dollars and tell all your friends (that you let in free) that you broke even. I make a phone call and drive down the street to meet my guy and come to your party. I’d go to the party and after 4 hours I walked out with 2,000 dollars and some little candy raver the promoter was trying to get on.

Around this time is when the first pressed pills hit the market. Ecstasy was never very popular before that because it use to come in powder form. You would have to put the powder into empty little capsules (molecules). Because 80 mg was enough to get you just high enough so you could feel it that’s how everyone capped them. You always wanted more. When pressed pills hit the market the pills contained about 100–150 mg of E so people were getting all fucked up.

My grandmother was ill at this point too. She went to the doctor and they ran some tests. The doctor told us that my grandmother had advanced terminal cancer but that we should not let her know. I come home from this party at 6 am tripping on mescaline and my grandmother is there when I open the door.

I could see the death on her face. One side looked like a big bruise and it was like the skin was slowly melting from her face. Maybe I was just tripping balls. She grabs my arm and says, “Logan ! What’s wrong with me! Why won’t they tell me what’s wrong with me?” I stood there for a second, then bolted out the front door screaming running down the street. I ran all the way to my friends house down the street I let myself in and passed out.

The next day my grandmother was catatonic. 1 week later she was dead. I don’t think that she wanted to be alive when my father died. I’m just sorry the last time she saw me I ran away from her screaming. Sounds funny, but it’s what happened.

After that I went to my chemistry midterm. Got there a half hour late and sat down. After I found someone with a scan-tron, which you must have in junior college because teachers are so lazy that they can’t even grade four tests in a semester, I started my test. I knew not one of the answers or had any Idea how to even fake it.

I turned in my blank scan-tron and left College for the last time at 130 miles an hour in my father’s Cadillac.

My dad was scheduled for his second surgery and then everything was going to be alright. Looking back now it was pretty grim. He couldn’t walk or even sit up at this point. I helped him out the best I could. My father had now become an invalid and all we could do was laugh about it. I had to pull down his pants and hold his dink as he peed. We would still get high together. My mother hated the fact that he was influencing his son in such a way. She didn’t seem to understand that he wasn’t really there anymore.

The day before his surgery my mom went out for a half hour. We smoked in his room using the toilet paper cardboard/dryer sheet method. We then shot the shoot for the last time, we discussed lots of things. A half hour had passed and my dad asked for another hit. I told him that I couldn’t do that as my mother would have ki/led us both. He begged, he pleaded and I walked out of the room. His last words to me were “Thanks, Thanks a lot Logan.” Through all my life I have one regret, and there it is…

He had the 2nd surgery in September and I was a life guard I had just taken two hits of mescaline. I was stationed on top of the slide beneath the giant skull that dumped 2,000 gallons of unheated water every second…. In September. Not the best spot in the park. I was called off stand and told to go to the hospital immediately….

I’m tripping balls and driving to the hospital. The feeling of impending doom was strong. I’m wearing my little red lifeguard trunks and the white collared polo shirt with lifeguard written on the back. I walked to the intensive care unit that I knew the location off all to well. My mother is crying, there’s 7 doctors in a huddle, our rabbi is there and my dad is in the bed convulsing. He was having one seizure after another.

The doctor who did the brain surgery walked in looking pissed. Another doctor put her hand on his shoulder and he pushed her out of the way. He stood over my father and used his hand to open my father’s eye. “Brady! Brady! Wake up! Brady!” Another doctor put his hand on the surgeon’s shoulder. He shrugged off his hand and stormed out, cursing in Hebrew. I didn’t know what was going on, but it didn’t look good.

After a while of doctors arguing, mom crying, dad convulsing, me standing in a swim suit tripping balls but feeling numb. A man called me into another room. He introduced himself as a grief councilor. We went into the hospital atrium and he explained that my father was never going to wake up. He explained a few other things that I didn’t listen to.

My dad was clinically brain dead.

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Brady Mora Credit: Author

He continued to “live” for 2 months. I went to the hospital for the first three weeks. He just got skinny and sicklier looking. My mother was there all day every day. He had a tracheotomy tube coming out of his throat. You could suction him and he would have a gagging reflex. My mother would do this every five minutes just to see him move. It was sick.

I can’t tell you much about those 2 months except I kicked 3 people’s asses for no particular reason and I was so high I didn’t give a fuck about anything, especially myself my 19 birthday party it was 2 weeks late because everyone forgot (I did too). My mom had left the hospital for the first time in 4 days. My family had all assembled in town.

There’s 15 of us in this Italian place and my mother’s cell phone rings. A hush falls over the table my mom looks at the caller id then starts sobbing. Mom picks up the call and her fears are confirmed. She hangs it up there is 15 us all hugging and crying and screaming. The only thing I can say is that we ruined every one else’s dinner that night and I’ve hated my birthday ever since.

I can’t really remember too much about that time except I felt an incredible loneliness. The so called friends of mine would call to say they were sorry and tell me to feel better and then hang up. My family all didn’t know what to say. My sister had her boyfriend, my mom had all her friends that had experienced this kind of thing before. I was all alone. Just me and my bottle of pills. They were with me at my dad’s funeral.

My friends all came, gave me a hug then left. “Sorry, give me a call when you are feeling better.” What remained of my family sat Shiva for about 4 hours. My friends had all left and I broke it first. I went upstairs took 4 of every good pill that was lying around the house, had a shot of tequila and a bong load of some chronic and went to bed for 3 days. I slept for two and just lied around the last day wondering what I was going to do now. Then my phone rang. I answered. Yes, I have a quarter. I got my keys…

Part 2

Got to try them all!

Slow suicide

Then it got worse.

What would you do?

The two on the left. I’ll get to the ones on the right in a few pages.

Logan and someone who would probably rather be left out of this

Crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy

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When the roommate came back, Sparky was dead.

The next night I met Dee at giant.

Shit, I hope this works….

Part 3

My roommate, let’s call him Dick, I had met Dick while living in my first apartment building. He was another DD who lived in the same complex. We worked together to better serve the northern SFV. Between all the college kids he knew and the substances I had access to we were a great team. There was just one problem, Dick was an asshole. Don’t get me wrong, he was very polite to me, but he treated his clients like shit. He would try to scam them if he could. He was all about making money of it while it was a way of life for myself.

Everything was fine at first. Then Nick got a real job at an internet porn site, tech support of course. While he was working there, he met a dude named Bob. He was in the same biz except he had the capital to buy in bulk. At first dick would be a middleman between Bob and I. Then he got lazy and had me meet Bob myself.

That was the end of Dicks side job.

I had stolen all his business. It was never my plan it just happened. I was always around, I treated people with respect, and my shit was da bomb. It would infuriate him when his friends called asking for me. Then Bob gave me a better deal because I was doing so good. When Dick figured out, I was getting a better deal he was pissed, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.

That’s him

Ah yes, on top again. I was a drug dealer still, but I was licensed. I got my certification for being a pharmacy tech. Which was like a pedophile running a day care. Dumb decision #one million three hundred eighty two thousand… Now I needed a job. I was called in to interview at Save-On in Valencia. The pharmacist loved me. I was to start as a tech at 10.50 an hour.

I had a shit eating grin on my face until he gave me the address of the drug testing facility. At head shop I bought detoxifiers but there is no diluting my urine. I was the only person in that labs history to test positive for all 7 drugs tested for. Eventually I was hired at another pharmacy as an ancillary for 8.00 per hour. Of course, that was just supplemental to my real income.

I had moved up in the game. There were only had to see about 3 people a day and was still making about a grand a week, tax free of course. I also had the backing of a major organization that handled any delinquent payments or loss recovery. I was only an associate because I wasn’t their ethnicity, but I was still very grateful to my syndicate and was very honored by their loyalty.

My house wasn’t what a 21 year old’s house in LA should look like.

3,000 sq ft, pool, spa, pool table, close to valley college. I had the master bedroom, of course. All I had was a bed, dresser and a safe. The house was originally lived in by my neighbor’s boyfriend. He was an apprentice plumber who worked 14 hours a day, and made less than I did. He was happy in his lifestyle and a bit self-righteous. I liked him.

There was a girl who moved in the same time I did. She was an office assistant who had a tough time making it to work on time. Getting fired then getting a job a week later was her trade, being the hot chick, she was/is. She also battled with demons. Many a night we would lie in bed together in somnolence. It was nothing sexual, we both just didn’t like sleeping alone. Had we not been roommates it might have been different, but it was a platonic relationship.

The other roommate was the last to move in. She was really something. This girl seemed the most normal externally, but she was a freak. She would go to this club on Thursday and give/get all these numbers. Then all weekend long…. She is probably going to read this so I’ll just say that she was always looking for love. My advice is don’t fuck your female roommate. I never did because I saw consequences through other people. It doesn’t work.

Girlfriend number 3.

She’s 6 feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes. She’s a student/waitress/alcoholic from Sylmar California and she can kick your ass in 2 seconds flat. Thank you.

She was hot and totally sprung on me. As many times as I tried to break up with her it never lasted more than 2 weeks. The sex was too damn good. I had this huge house with a huge room. She hinted all the time that she would love to move in but there was no way in hell. This girl had a voice like Fran Dresher from the valley.

I was mentally sound and had a real job. I had sobered up to some extent. My personal relationships were great. Life was peachy. Or was it?

Working at a retail pharmacy may pay well, but it is probably the most stressful job you could have. It’s like this; Almost everyone that is picking up drugs falls into 3 main categories 1) sick 2) old 3) insane. Usually it was a combination of all three. All your customers have problems.

Imagine you go to the doctor because you are sick. You call into work sick. You call your doctor and are informed you can’t be seen until next week. When you mention you are vomiting & shitting blood, they reluctantly tell you to come in. You sit in the waiting room for 2 hours before you are called into a private waiting room for 1 hour. The doctor finally comes in sticks a stethoscope to your chest and writes you a prescription. You take this chicken scratch to the pharmacy and are told it will be ready in one hour. When you come back in an hour the person behind the counter tells you that this drug is not covered by your insurance. You may pay $200 for 10 pills or go back to your doctor so he may write you a rx for a less effective drug. You are pissed.

I am behind the counter making 1/2 of everyone else you have spoken with today and you are screaming at me. I understand why you are mad, but don’t yell at me. It’s your employer who chooses your benefits. It was SO stressful. I’ve seen chairs thrown, people sitting in front of the pharmacy entrance, people demanding to speak with the district manager. These Pharmicist primidona made 40 an hour. Did they help? No. It was Hella stressful, and behind you have an arsenal of products designed to make your day more tolerable. Do you try them?

Then I met number 4.

She worked the photo dept. She was the exact opposite of my current girlfriend. This woman was educated, funny, cultured, refined but most importantly interested. We both liked The Who, getting obliterated, and lived 5 minutes apart. I was sprung instantly. I dumped Blondie and tried not to look back.

Girlfriend 4 was going to be my everything. I jumped in with reckless abandon like Mick Foley Jumping off the top of the cage at Madison Square Garden in front of a sell out crowd. Life was sweet. Could this be that love thing that people talked about? It got serious really quick. One night she said to me she didn’t care what I did or if I was unfaithful, just tell the truth. I told her I would never do that to her. Of course, I eventually did.

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Not pictured on account of her being a kinda big deal now. Here’s other friends.

Here’s where it gets good. After 2 years of steering clear of Ketamine, I found someone who could get vials for 25 bucks. My first order was 6 and I just went to town. I was completely fucked up that week. I still went to work, purple faced, red eyes, talking like I just had a stroke. All the syringes lying around didn’t help. One day I had shot a cc in my ass and went back out. This was more than usual but I wasn’t concerned. I go back to my register and this lady comes up and tells me her last name.

As I turn around to get it, and the next thing I know I’m on the other side of the pharmacy, my coworker grabbed me by my arms and I came to. she asked if I was alright and I ran to the bathroom and ate a sugar cube, which snaps you back immediately. I ran home and told them something didn’t agree with my stomach.

The next time I visited my ketamine hookup I prepared a vial into powder at his house. This guy was the lowest of the low. He was tweaked and on K. He had an apartment with his wife and her kid. This skinhead wife of his was 8 months pregnant and doing all the drugs we were. His father also lived with them. He had been recently released from prison after 20 yrs for committing a hate crime. I didn’t even ask. We would do lines and then the kid would play with the straw and the plate. It was depraved.

After leaving the apartment I needed another rail to forget what I had just seen. The next thing I know I’m on the freeway doing about 25. Oh shit, I got to get off this thing. I exited the next exit and was stopped at the light off the freeway. I was going to pull into the 7–11 on the right as soon as this light changes… Is that a cop car behind us? I remember the lights coming on then my memory begins again handcuffed in the back of a cop car sitting next to my friend. My car was being towed away on a flatbed and I was going to jail for the first time.

The police were puzzled. How could someone be so disassociated one minute and then fine the next. I blamed my cold medicine. When we get to the station we are put in holding cells. They take our picture on the federal facial imaging recorder and then give me a cup to pee in.

“I choose blood”

The cops weren’t sure sure what I was talking about. I know the law. Blood, breath and urine were my legal options.  They drive me to the hospital down the way. The cop that arrested me was actually a nice guy, He was being cool with me so I was cool with him. He told me that he wished everyone he arrested was as polite as me.

“Hey, you got your job I have mine.” I told him.

We get there and they were like you can’t test for drugs in blood. We drove back and I was given the cup again. In retrospect I shouldn’t have but I did. While Ketamine is untraceable in blood, the 240ml bottle of Hycodan I drank yesterday would have. I peed. I was then taken into the sleeping room. Where there were 10 degenerates passed out. This one Greg “the hammer” Valentine looking mofo was bleeding profusely from the forehead when they brought him in. He lied down and passed out immediately. I have never heard anyone snore so loud. Everyone was snoring. In a concrete box.

It was easily the most maddening evening of my life. We were released on our own recognizance. We walked to the tow yard and got my car. The 10 vials in an Arrowhead water bottle were still there. We went home and got high. The next day at work my girlfriend asked me if I did anything interesting last night. When I told her she thought I was joking.

That may have saved my life

This began the legal battle. OK I probably could have fought it and won. I had been playing with the trigger for 4 years at that point and nothing had ever happened. It was 6,000 for a lawyer and about 3,000 to face the music.

California penal code AB 1000

Those found to be in possession of controlled narcotics that fall below federal guidelines may be eligible for a diversion program….

Basically, I take a class, go to some anonymous meetings, and pick up some trash on the side of freeway and it gets wiped off your record. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

On June 5 2001 as I got dressed to go to court, I had my first major panic attack. I mean, everyone freaks out but I started freaking out and then I started getting frantic. Then I was paralyzed with fear and terror. Then I woke up 5 minutes later with blood coming out of my orifices (nose, mouth, ears, eyes, no shit.) I tried to clean myself up but I was still shaking.

I grabbed my court paper as I went to leave the house and I noticed the date I was ordered to appear. July 5th. Wait, July? JULY!! I had another month! I celebrated by snorting a huge line of ketamine/cocaine mixture (something I called KO)and taking a hand full of Ativan. Yep, that’s how fucked up I was back then. It was too much damn pressure.

People call, they call again, they call back.

People you would never talk to under normal circumstances. They want something and you are the only person that can get it. Your so called friends are throwing money at you. The only thing that will make them go away is getting it for them. So you call your friend who calls there friend and you get it for them. The more you buy the more you make, in theory. If you sell it all.

Key word is “sell” not do it all yourself but “sell the drugs.” They take it and call you 2 hours later to tell you that it didn’t really work. They think they should get more for free. You tell them to eat shit and die. They start getting crazy. Now you have a reason to lock the door, carry a weapon, look over your shoulder. The level I was at I didn’t want these people to know where I lived, where my mom lived, what my real name was, nothing. You had a cell phone in your name for your friends and a new prepaid phone every 3 months for business.

In the meanwhile, I had a full time job. People recognizing me, asking for favors, wanting to meet me when I had a break. I treated my pharmacy job with respect and I was proud to do it. I had a responsibility to my job, to my family, to my girlfriend, to my clients, and to myself. To maintain where I lived, what I drove, whose name was on my jeans, the variety, the quantity and the quality.

I could never be a man. I had to be THE man.

Everybody knew of me, some had met me, but only a handful really knew me. How could you know me when I don’t even know myself? If you are making 50 grand a year and spending 55 grand, you are not making money. I was climbing higher up on a ladder that led to nothing, it was just farther you could fall. up some trash in the ghetto and its wiped clean.

21st birthday

I eventually did appear in court plead guilty and started through the system. They placed me on probation for 3 years but I was under the impression that I didn’t have to report to them if I was going to pay instead of Caltrans work. A thousand bucks was nothing to me. I was making around 150k tax free a year. I went to these drunk driving classes. I went really, really high. These people all had received DUI. I had a DWI (driving while intoxicated). They all were drunks. I was a drug addict. If I could go down to the store and picked my poison I would have been fucked.

Meanwhile the madness continued in my personal life. I had accomplished my goal of trying every substance known to man. Hycodan cough syrup was as is still my favorite. I was eating about 20 vicodin a day and was developing a buzzing in my ears. Amphetimines in the morning, tranquilizers at night. People were getting worried. I remember my window being shattered and a head popping in. It was my roommate. She had been banging at my door for an hour and there was no answer. She thought I had overdosed. I assured her I was fine as I fell back to sleep on my pillow with glass all over it.

My girlfriend was worried most. I walked around semi coherent Ozzy Osborne style all day. She made an ultimatum; it was her or the drugs. I told her it was her but I kept doing the drugs. She would find a plate or syringe or cough syrup bottle. I would say I was sorry and even cry if necessary, but I didn’t slow down at all. Just like my parents taught me that it was ok to lie. I didn’t think there was anything wrong in what I was doing.

After 20 drunk driving classes it was finally my last one. About an hour before the end of class my roommate started paging me. Paging 911 123 187. Something was not ok but I never imagined that it could possibly be THAT.

(This was written recently as I glossed over it when it was originally written)

I was at the last class I had to take for my DWI I had received 9 months before. My pager vibrated. It was the number to my house, my roommate Courtney’s pager code and 911 for emergency. I received another text a few moments later with the code 187 added. That’s not good. I called after the class was dismissed.

“What’s up?”

“The FBI and DEA are here. They say if you’re not home in 5 minutes they’re kicking in the door to your room. You need to come home NOW!”

“… I’m on my way.”

I got in my silver grandpa car and headed towards home. Running was never an option. I knew what I did had risks. I had been waiting for this day for over 5 years and it was finally here. Weed was decriminalized for personal use, but I had pounds at home. As I parked down the street, I thought that this would be the last car I would get to drive for a few years. I was finally going to jail.

I’ll never forget that scene. I opened my front door to find an assortment of FBI and DEA agents playing pool on my pool table. Most had on their bulletproof vests and holstered guns. The rest were wearing wind breakers with the name of their agency. They look over at me and one asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Hogan Torah..”

“You’re Hogan Torah!?!”

I opened up my rooms for the feds to search and then was taken into the back yard by the lead investigator. I was shaking like a leaf and probably ghost white. He got me a glass of water.

“Here’s the deal. We’ve been following around Bobby for the past 2 months. He came here a lot. Earlier today he sold me 8,000 ecstasy tablets. What we need to know is if you are giving it or getting it?”

“Getting it.”

“Where does he get it from?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know? You seem to be his right-hand man. Which is why we were so surprised when you walked in. We have been raiding houses all day filled with hard core gang members with guns and priors for violent crimes. People jumping out windows, hiding in closets, fake ID’s. We were not expecting Hogan to be a 20 year old kid who looks like a Jewish Christian Slater. So you’re telling me Bobby never told you where he was going when he was picking up?”

“Correct.”

“Why didn’t he tell you?”

“I never wanted to know because I knew this day would come…”

I’m not a snitch.

I have never dropped a dime on anyone. Bobby had told me a few days ago about this deal. I advised him to be cautious as they were paying something absurd like 16 bucks a pill or something. At the time if you were buying a boat (boat = 1,000 pills) 6 bucks a pill was the average price. 16 a pill for 8,000 was illogical. I even asked him if he was sure this guy wasn’t a cop. And now the guy he told me about was in my back yard with a badge on his tactical vest asking questions.

Bobby was the equivalent of a made guy. He was a full member of the most powerful Asian gang in Los Angeles. Bobby was smart enough to be anything he wanted to be. He came from a very well to do family who owned donut shops all over LA, but Bobby didn’t want to get up at 3am to make donuts, he enjoyed being a gangster.

As I was asked other questions, I didn’t know the answer to I saw them pull out the 3 freezer bags full of weed I had in my closet. They pulled out my briefcase filled with Rx bottles of almost every drug imaginable that I had been collecting over the past 5 years. I knew I was going to jail. I accepted my fate.

They let my two roommates who were home come see me. I felt so bad. My roommates were innocent college girls who hadn’t even been pulled over for speeding. They weren’t built for this. They said when they heard a knock on the door and saw a guy who sort of looked like one of my friends. When she opened it they all rushed in and pushed her down. The other roommate had just gotten out of the shower with a towel on when she almost walked into the shotgun pointed at her head.

The girls were crying. There was nothing I could say so we just held each other. They knew I was going away for a long time… Or was I?

I could tell by the agents’ body language something was happening. They were passing around a piece of paper shaking their heads laughing. Great, what did they find now.

“Is this yours?” I looked at the piece of paper. It looked familiar. I imagine a smile crept across my face as I realized what it was.

“Yes. That is absolutely my medical marijuana prescription.”

Prop 215 had passed a year ago. As soon as I could find a doctor who would I got a prescription for weed. I never went to a dispensary but got it for this exact purpose. As the agents smirked at each other I got this feeling I may not be going to jail without having to flip (agree to give someone else up).

Sometime later I heard the garbage disposal running for a prolonged period. While the rest of the agents finished their pool game the lead investigator took me aside.

“Here’s the thing Hogan, we are the feds. The amount of each drug you have is under the federal limit. We aren’t going to arrest you tonight. Normally in cases when the amount of drugs is beneath our threshold we call the local cops and they arrest you. However, you have been cooperative, we believe you answered our questions honestly, your roommates told us about the kind of person you are. Those girls love you to death you know. You don’t belong in this life. You need to knock off this bullshit and get yourself back in school. You’re not a criminal.

While we’re not calling the police tonight, we are going to turn over what we have and let them deal with it so do expect them to contact you at some point. Don’t leave town for a few weeks in case we have some more questions. We will be watching you. Keep your nose clean.” And they left.

I touched myself to make sure I was really still at home. The girls grabbed me around the neck and buried their heads in my chest and we all had an amazing 5-minute cry. I later looked at the garbage disposal and noticed a bunch of stems. I think they put all the drugs in the disposal.

To recap. I lost my job, my livelihood, and my girlfriend in less than 24 hours. Then it got REALLY bad.

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I had been raped. I was alone and useless.

My pharmacy tech license was worthless. All my hard work meant nothing. My crew was locked up. I had $200 the feds didn’t find. Everywhere I went I was followed and monitored. When I took my car in for service the mechanic asked if I knew there was a transmitter on my car. No one wanted anything to do with me. The people I had helped make rich turned their backs on me. I spent my last bit of change on dope and moved back in with my mother. The estate my family owned was sold after my father died. The home I moved back into was a 3 bedroom townhouse in Chatsworth my mother was freaking out because she finally had to face the reality. Her son was a criminal, junkie, lying, degenerate.

You can’t go from a $100 dollar a day 5 substance habit to cold turkey. I drank all my mom’s booze and ate the rest of my dead relatives’ meds and tried to forget about where I was.

The Hollywood lifestyle. I used to treat several friends to steak dinner. Now I was stealing my mother’s change to try to hook up on Colombus st. I wanted to die but was too much of a pussy to do it all at once. Every day I was killing my self a little more. I would sit around all day using any substance available to take me away from this pain. My mom would come home and find me in various states of incoherency and start going nuts, crying and screaming. Brochures for rehab centers started appearing on the kitchen table.

I hit rock bottom on the top of a rock

One day I had found a $100 in a book. (Jews are weird like this, that whole holocaust thing.) I promptly bought 2 vials of Ketamine. That night I couldn’t sleep on account of the huge amount of narcotics in my body. At 5 in the morning I said,” Hey wouldn’t it be cool if I climbed to the top of a rock in Chatsworth park and shot up as the sun rose? The answer turned out to be no but off I went. Climbing up was no problem. I arrived as the sky started getting light. Once I was there, I did my dose. It was as much fun as you can have sitting on a rock with the person you hate most in your life, yourself.

It’s starting to get warm (it was August) and I decided to head home before my Mom and Sister woke up. I jumped of the rock and realized I was still completely fucked up. I stumbled around for an hour, falling down all over the place, developing the most hellacious cuts and bruises you can imagine. I’m lucky I didn’t fall of a cliff. After about an hour of wandering aimlessly I finally got my bearings. I could see where I needed to go, but I couldn’t get there for the life of me. I took every path, climbed over every rock, tried all directions but I couldn’t get to where I needed to be. After about 4 hours of being able to see my house, but not get there.

I became frantic. It was about 100 outside. I was completely dehydrated and malnourished. After 5 hours I had been stuck on these fucking rocks for 5 hours and I had made no progress. I sat down and started crying.

Then I heard a voice. I was told, “Get up you fucking pussy. You aren’t getting out of this so easy. You better get off these rocks or I’m throwing us off.” The voice was me. Me with self-confidence. I was still Logan. No matter what happened recently, I was still the man. This was just another experience that if I managed to survive, would just make me that much stronger. I was already in pain. If I was going to die, I was going to die trying. I don’t know nor care how I got here, that is irrelevant. Fuck this rock, I’m out of here.

I walked to the lowest point of this elevated mass of rocks. Climbing was not an option; I was too weak and it was a sheer face. I saw a patch of dirt roughly 25 feet below. (uh huh) I remembered my training (hardcore backyard wrestling) and stepped off the rock angling my body towards my backside. I landed perfect. My feet hit and my legs collapsed absorbing some of the impact, my ass hit and I lied down with my head bouncing off the dirt, my back absorbing the rest. I was alive. I was not ok, but alive. The park trail was right in front of me. My road home.

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I walked in my mother’s condo at about Noon.

They were relived I was alive but horrified at my appearance. That picture would be even cooler than me taking a shit. They asked what happened. I said I was depressed and went for a walk. My mother informed me I was going to Shady Acres tomorrow. It was either rehab or get the fuck out.

My mom and sis left for a while and I still had a half gram of Ketamine left. I did it all in one hellacious line. First, I watched some T.V. with my homeboy. We were chilling, talking, laughing, drinking and then after an hour I noticed that I was alone. Trippy. I decided went to take a shower.

In the shower I was taken out of my body to speak with God and he told me that this experience that I was going through was just a test. My real life that I had been living before my dad died was being given back to me as soon as I opened the bathroom door. I turned off the water and felt the divine presence. I was ecstatic as I dried off. When I opened my bathroom door, I expected to have my real life that I was supposed to be living waiting there for me. Really. God told me himself.

I opened the bathroom door and everything looked the same. Everything was the same. I had really earlier almost died on top of some rocks, I was unemployed, the Feds were monitoring me, I had really lost my girl, everyone I loved was still dead but I am still 23 years old in my pajamas in my mom’s condo and now on top of that I was officially insane.

I screamed. Not just once. Not a scream I can even replicate under normal circumstances. A very few people have heard this scream, no one who has heard it will ever forget it. People who have heard this scream look at me different after experiencing this. This scream comes straight from my soul. Why did I scream this scream?

I had done it. My brain had broken.

I wasn’t coming down from this high. This time I was in a K-hole forever. Like that girl on FOX 11 news. I was not OK. I tried to call my mom too take me to the looney bin right then. Fortunately, I was too fucked up to work the phone. I broke into a neighbor’s house and stole her Valium (she eventually ODed, but that’s another story) I took a handful and went to sleep for a day.

My Mom woke me up and put in the car. My mom was telling me what a wonderful place this rehab ctr was. The plan was to get help and then start college again and then get a good job and pay her back from the money I had borrowed, and never need drugs again. When the car stopped I ran. I was still all Valium out from the day before but at that time my mom weighed over 200lbs and couldn’t catch a cold.

I went to the closest safe place I knew. The Gallang residence. That’s when a Michelle saved my life….

If you think I am trying to prove how cool I am because of the shit I did, especially in this fucked up episode. You need to check your head. This was the worst part of my life. I can’t imagine it ever getting this bad again. My favorite word is redemption and I was determined to prove it.

My sister Cerise

I escaped the car and made it to my friend Michelle & Mellisa’s house (from this point on I can use names.) They took me in and let me mope for a day or two before they started whipping my ass into shape. They helped me write a resume, sober up, and feel happy again. It was purely platonic, but we helped each other a lot. My Mom knew where I was and was OK with it. I was 23 after all.

Started at the top and now we’re here

Finding a job is the hardest job of all. I was overqualified for all the little jo jobs out there. No one wants to hire you when they know you aren’t staying long. I was NOT going back to a pharmacy. There was no denying I had a drug problem and I didn’t trust myself. I still don’t today. I’m better now but I would never want to tempt myself like that again.

Around this time, I started the drug offender classes. The first time I walked in the class I realized I knew about half the people. There was one guy especially who had used to come buy a lot who I would talk to. Timmy is 6’4″ and just naturally strong. He’s all tatted up and just looks like trouble. Part of the program was mandatory drug testing and you had to go to one 12 step program meeting a week. I asked Timmy what AA program was in the area. He told me about this Narcotics Annon meeting in Pettit park. I checked it out with my friend Michelle.

I cannot even begin to explain how much those two hours a week changed my life. This meeting was led by a girl my age that I knew from way back when. She was a crazy mofo who never backed down from anything or anyone. I had read the twelve steps before and thought it was a load of crap. What does god have to do with being sober. This group replaced the word God with “higher power.”

About two-thirds of the people at the meeting were these kids from a group home. They had all been taken away from their parents for various offences of the law. If the parents can’t control them, they go to a group home. I thought my life was crazy. The stories that came out of these kids mouths were unbelievable, but truth is stranger than fiction. These kids had been through so much and they were all about 15.

Okay, step one is to admit you are a drug addict, and your life is unmanageable. Yep, okay, I’m an addict and no longer a functional addict. Step 2 admit a higher power exists and can restore us to sanity. God? what the hell has he ever done for me? He’s the one who put me here. Screw God. Then I started thinking about it. All of it. Where I started, where I was now, where I was heading with all this. Hmmm… Ok I’ll believe for a second there is a higher power besides the court that can help me. Step 3 turning our lives over to this higher power. Alright god, I know it’s been a while and I’ve been kind of pissed since you took my father. So you are my higher power and I guess I’m asking for your help.

Coming to terms with myself

A funny thing then happened. It worked. Whenever I was about to fall off the wagon. I asked for the strength to resist and it worked. It was god and there’s no other explanation. I prayed and was given strength I never knew I had.

Step 4 is to make a fearless moral inventory of yourself. I thought back on everything. What were my faults? my compulsiveness and my drive to succeed in my definition of success. I had hurt some people, mostly in the form of broken hearts. What was just sex to me was more to some of these women (girls: give a guy your rules before he takes your panties off) I had disappointed my family. Scared people half to death that really cared by doing all this foolish stuff. I had been beaten, stabbed, had guns pulled, shot at, been jacked of tens of thousands of dollars, gotten friends involved because they just happened to be there.

As far as other people went I never wronged anyone else in the game so I had no one to hide from. I had lied to ones I loved and lost their trust. Over 1 million dollars passed through my hands before I could legally drink and where was I now and what did I have to show for it? I ain’t got shit. I’m Sitting in a rec room in a park sitting around with a bunch of druggies, listening, relating, and realizing that I was still alive and healthy. Thank God. I found my faith again through my struggles.

What it’s all about really is admitting you are wrong and that you need help. The drugs just weren’t working anymore. If I need to take drugs to be normal what’s the point? I had taken every drug I could and then again. It wasn’t fun anymore. I had seen too much shit. I had expanded my mind as far as it can go and at this point, I was just damaging it.

Damaged

The quick-witted boy had transformed into a slow, slurring man that forgot what he was talking about in the middle of a sentence more often than not. The nitrous had damaged my nerves and muscle control at my extremities, I could only type with one finger on each hand. I still got scars related to my use, burns and stab wounds mostly. My right foot is completely flat because I broke it and was running around on it too much. I was damaged goods. I was broken. The only thing I could do about it was pray to god to keep me sober and try to exercise my mind.

I was dreading getting a job. Well, it was the looking part that bothered me. If there’s one thing I’m afraid of its rejection. Especially when it’s based on my appearance. Fortunately I had an inn at this sporting goods store that was opening. I was hired into the receiving dept. Now I helped to build this store, and it was hard work. I found it incredibly therapeutic. It was lifting and building and we worked as a team. I was making like 7 bucks an hour but it was somewhere to start.

After a while the management realized my potential. After they fired everyone else in the receiving department for stealing and the supervisor left because his girly who worked in sporting goods done him wrong. I was made lead. I immediately hired 3 of my friends who I knew were more than capable of unloading trucks and putting tags on merchandise. It was good times. I was walking proud again.

I remained sober and finished my programs. My drug charge was dropped and my DWI was reduced to a misdemeanor. My mother was starting to trust me again. Her looks were no longer suspicious but proud. I gained weight and I could complete several sentences without slurring or going “Uhhh….” I continued to go to meetings even after it was no longer court ordered. People started commenting how much better I looked. Even though it was rarely discussed, everyone knew I was using previously. I would tell people about my life style change and they were mostly supportive. There are those that still remember me as a drugged-out hustler, but they can lick my ass. If you want to use the past to judge me, fine.

I realized that in order for people to disregard my past, I had to prove myself, to redeem myself, for my own redemption. Redemption. I love that word. I worked on it every day. Being the best person I could be from waking up until I slept. I did it for myself. I wasn’t just fronting if I ever told anyone I was feeling excellent.

However, there was one person I couldn’t show.

Martha, poor Martha. She was around for the worst. As stated in my previous journal, I thought this was the one. There was no second or fifteenth chance. She will still talk to me if I wanted to talk to her. But She will never look at me like she used to. I’m not the crazy boy who accepted & loved her unconditionally, I was just that asshole that broke her heart. She didn’t ever believe a word I said. She gave me one instruction “don’t lie.” That was all I had to do, but it’s easier to say you went to a friend’s house than you were in a Jacuzzi all night with 3 girls. But she knew, she just did. Nothing happened. I was faithful until I was dumped. Then when she came over 2 weeks later for the make-up she asked if I had slept with anyone else. Bad time for honesty. You dumped me. Sorry I’m not sitting around crying. Ever since I only speak the truth.

Eh, she was kinda a bitch anyways

I live my life as best as I can. Today I’m not ashamed of anything I do. I don’t need to lie to impress people. I don’t ever want to lose a girl because I didn’t tell the truth. If I’m a slob or my dick is not thick enough, that’s cool. However, it works both ways. Today I fight to find the truth.


And that’s the end of the story. I got married next but that’s a whole other story I may or may not tell. I did get into drugs later and got my old job back selling dope and may write about that after the statute of limitations has past. Thank you for reading my long ass story originally titled “Who am I” posted on my first website anotherlogan.com in 2004. All pictures taken by the author, Hogan Torah. All rights reserved.

1 Comment
  • Anna Mannino
    Posted at 17:51h, 07 August

    This is so incredibly raw and honest, I’ve been waiting for part three but I had no idea what kind of punch it was packing. The whole collection is starting to work In my mind as an independent novel. This is incredible work. You’re captivating, take it to the bank.

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