Tweaker Quotes

Q: What's the difference between a tweaker and an elephant? A: The elephant will eat all your peanut butter.

When you hang out with whiners, pessimists, tweakers, bleakers, freakers-outers, and life-is-so-unfairers, it’s an uphill climb to keep yourself in a positive headspace. Stay away from people who see limitless possibility as the reality. Surround yourself with people who act on their big ideas, who take action on making positive change in the world and who see nothing as out of their reach.

If there was a National Tweaker Olympics, Oregon would bring home the gold in every category (Living in Squalor, Poisoning Your Neighbors, Developing Facial Scabs, Public Aggression, Theft of Useless Things, Taking Stuff Apart, and Crazy Talking).

Good luck getting staffed up during Ragnarök.

When you demand logic, you pay a hidden price: you destroy magic. And the modern world, oversupplied as it is with economists, technocrats, managers, analysts, spreadsheet-tweakers and algorithm designers, is becoming a more and more difficult place to practise magic – or even to experiment with it. In what follows, I hope to remind everyone that magic should have a place in our lives – it is never too late to discover your inner alchemist.

When you hang out with whiners, pessimists, tweakers, bleakers, freakers-outers and life-is-so-unfairers, it’s an uphill climb to keep yourself in a positive headspace. Stay away from people with tiny minds and tiny thoughts and start hanging out with people who see limitless possibility as the reality. Surround yourself with people who act on their big ideas, who take action on making positive change in the world and who see nothing as out of their reach. Make a conscious choice to do this. And

NOBODY CAN PREDICT WHO’LL MAKE it through BUD/S. The brass tries to figure it out; they bring in psychologists and boost the number of guys beginning the process, hoping more SEALs will be left standing at the end. They tweak the design to create more equal opportunity for minorities, but all that happens is that the instructors do to the students exactly what was done to them, and always 80 percent don’t make it. We have more white SEALs simply because more white guys try out. Eighty percent of white guys fail, 80 percent of Filipinos fail, 80 percent of black guys fail. And the irony is, the Navy doesn’t want an 80 percent failure rate. There can’t be too many SEALs. We’re always undermanned. From the beginning of boot camp, the instructors try separating guys who want to be SEALs. They put them together, feed them better, give them workouts designed to prepare them for BUD/S. These promising rookies get in better shape, are better nourished, and are psychologically primed to go. Then they’re sent to SEAL training and 80 percent fail. No matter what the Navy process tweakers do, they can’t crack it. You’d think the Olympic swimmer would make it. You’d think the pro-football player would make it. But they don’t—well, 80  percent don’t. In my experience, the one category of people who get reliably crushed in BUD/S are that noble demographic, the loudmouths. They’re usually the first to ring the bell. As for who will make it, all I can say is: Are you the person who can convince your body that it can do anything you ask it to? Who can hit the wall and say, “What wall?” That strength of mind isn’t associated with any ethnicity or level of skin pigmentation. It’s not a function of size or musculature or IQ. In the end, it’s sheer cussedness, and I’m guessing you’re either born that way or you never get there.

When Bobby was promoting raves back in Sacramento, Jimmy Bonifant was dealing ecstasy and what was the point of going to a rave without a double drop of vitamin X? The two hustlers shared a condo, ate breakfast at the Silver Skillet at three in the morning, and brought tweakers home and did them in the same room. Eventually,

Man I'm so cold - it's 98 degrees Think I saw some human heads growin' on the trees Get a pair of pliers - and pull out all my teeth Never gonna need 'em if I'm never gonna eat I'd really be excited if I thought that this would pass Didn't have a wallet man I wouldn't have an ass My girlfriend's on the floor - she's gurglin' from the mouth That must be why I got these maggots crawlin' on the house Not much of a sleeper I am the tweaker Now I'm pukin' up my balls they're fuzzy little stones at least I'm not a hippie faggot smoking little bones when the bag runs empty - satan helps me cop Drinkin' up the draino to get back on top If I don't get some fuel I think I'm gonna flip I just ate a scorpion that stung me on the lip Sometimes I get so tired - never been a sleeper Life is just a side-effect cause I am the tweaker I just ate my beeper I am the tweaker I'm chewing on my sneaker I am the tweaker Born in 1984 I think I'm still alive These spots on my face and neck look like I'm 65 Snot bubbles in nose every time I start to cough My shriveled dick fell on the floor while I was jerkin' off My skin will start to burn if I turn on the lights My dealer wants his money but I can't fuckin' fight No sense in taking out the garbage leave it one the bed Call and leave a message 'cuz tomorrow I'll be dead Here comes the fuckin' reaper I am the tweaker Here comes the fuckin' reaper I am the tweaker

Like a lot of rural places, southern Illinois is basically a bunch of small towns knit together, a Babel's Tower mix of rednecks, rubes, freaks, tweakers, gun nuts, and aging hippies--real hippies, not the newfangled crunchy kids they're turning out these days--who'd fled into the dark-licked hills sometime during the bloodiest days of a war that wouldn't stop shaping their lives and had never come out.

He’s like a walking talking lie-detector machine. The minute he pins me with his dark eyes, I start sweating and twitching like a tweaker on meth.

Bathed in a late autumn glow, Springfield doesn’t seem like a community ravaged by meth despite its reputation as a paradise for tweakers (chronic users). The Battlefield Mall—named in memory of Wilson’s Creek, a famous Civil War battle

In her mind she was calm, unaware her body was going through some seriously fucked up shit on a dingy couch in an old strip mall in the middle of El Cajon, California.

Sometimes, I felt like a camp counselor for tweakers who could weld. And work with antimatter, but that was neither here nor there—

The four men fidgeted, animated about something or other, eyes constantly searching, seeing and cringing at the spiders on the walls and the mothmen in the corners. All four tweakers were white, thin, and tall. And close to the same age. All wore baggy shirts and baggy pants, and their flat-brimmed ball caps were crooked. When they spoke it was clipped and fast and they used hand gestures that looked like bad karate. Occasionally they’d look my way, make a gesture, laugh, and sneer. One spit at my feet. I smiled, nodded, and held up my whiskey. The three at the table must have been coming down from “a long time on the moon,” as the meth heads called the time they spent tweaked. Their heads were cradled on skinny folded arms and one, the guy, snored. “You

New York might run on Dow Jones, lattes, dollar signs, and neon lies, but what beats in its breast is it’s people: it’s hip-hop, it’s bodegas, it’s art, it’s Union Square grifters, it’s subway mariachi, it’s two-jobs-and-night-school-thank-you-I’m-fine mothers, it’s daughters full of dreams of making it big, it’s multicolored sons and their hopes blazing bright as a meth tweaker’s eyes.