"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me."
Hunter S. Thompson, one of the great writers of our age, or any age for that matter, probably muttered said quote amidst a drug-induced insomnia to a quivering reporter in a seedy motel off of a barren side street. How endearing.
Drugs. Some of us have done them, some of us in copious amounts, some of us not at all. What a sensitive subject to most! Why the fear, though? Chances are, some of the very people that you look up to have found themselves in a Narcotic Narnia, frolicking about in complete and utter bliss. Your parents probably dabbled, just to see what it was like. Our American President even partook, maybe in a simple matter ("Indulged in marijuana, alcohol, and sometimes cocaine..."), but in a matter nonetheless. Regardless of the drug of choice, though, the fact of the matter is that this Junkie Underworld we read about is no underworld at all, and it surely isn't cluttered with the prototypical "junkies". Despite how oblivious most are, this "underworld" is prevalent nearly every where you go. You know them, work with them, take classes with them, run into them in the street. These are simply facts, nothing else.
I'm not here to fool anyone. I've always taken pride in the fact that I bear little shame for anything that I've done. Hell, who I am, how I think, and the way I carry myself is indeed a product of nothing else but where I've been, what I've done, and the methods in which I experienced said circumstances. I firmly believe that if we all dropped the facade and spoke only shamelessly and freely, things would be clearer, and inevitably a bit better. Honesty is quite a lonely word, though. So lonely.
I've done a fair share of these dire and devilish things. Marijuana, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, ecstasy, a variety of little pills. Thoreau once said that,
“Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones.”At various points in my life, the "God" I chose to worship was none other than a Keith Richards-esque squabbler, bumbling around in a thoroughly successful, drug-induced euphoria. Not some of my proudest experiences, but experiences nonetheless. Relish them regardless, I say.
In regards to debilitating my body, cocaine was always my weapon of choice. Whiskey too, as of late, but that's another matter. Cocaine is quick, clean, and readily available if you know what you're doing and where to look. As opposed to popular opinion, it doesn't render you a useless idiot, but rather a talkative, witty, personable chap, readily prepared for anything and everything. It's never cheap, but that really doesn't matter once you find yourself amidst the moment (one good reason not to immediately load your bank statement after a binge, as one needs to prepare themselves for what could potentially be tear-inducing). I loved cocaine, I will honestly say I truly did, and it doesn't bother me. Liquid courage has nothing on the courage I'd inhaled through a dollar bill( 20's are classier, FYI.). I will say this, though. That Junkie Underworld I spoke of before, it does kind of exist, at least when it comes to the exchanging of illegal and taboo materials, especially in plain sight. The ingenuity of the drug dealer, and at times even the dealt, is intriguing enough all on it's own. I've obtained it in busy, popular, quasi-classy bars, in restaurants, past jobs, yet also in seedy apartments strewn with souls lost in deeper highs (lows) than can ever be properly conveyed verbally. I've found it from strangers (never the best idea, as you might get more than you could've bargained for), on dark, drafty corners, in cars, and from the armed and dangerous. While once viewed as the drug of choice for the rich and deserving, it's become much more readily available to anyone with a few loose bills. And, believe me, it's all happening around you, right before your eyes.
Ask any addict, and they'll agree with me here, that one can never really quit these things. One can't simply say that "I'm done, I'll never do that again". Most of them intend to never touch it, and they very well might not but, as with everything in life, the future is a beguiling mistress and we're all lured forwards by the sweet sound of her siren. I'm in that boat. While I have no intention of dabbling dangerously in that debauchery, the future holds things I know not of, and I'll never pretend to know so. For the record, I feel fine, in case you were concerned. ;)
While the intriguingly interesting highs I do miss, there's much I don't. For instance, regardless how suitable and proper one might feel about themselves, it's near impossible to feel so when you find yourself waiting on a corner behind a supermarket for the scratch that'll cure that near insatiable itch. It's dark, you're paranoid, and you really just want to get your shit and go back to the solace of personal safety, of which there is none where you're standing. You're voluntarily mixing in with what can be a bit of a rough crowd, but it's the only way to get what it is you're pining for. And while you might find trustworthy suppliers, you can never really know what it is exactly that you're paying for. It can truly be a bit frightening.
Now, it all starts as a bit of fun, and it really is. You're laughing, listening to music, drinking, and messing about with your mates. You make new friends with your new found ability to swallow any doubt and approach everyone. It's a blast, and it tends to blow (pun intended) other experiences out of the water. Therein lies the problem, though. That first hit will indeed be the greatest you'll feel that night, and you'll spend the rest of the time hitting and hitting, desperately attempting to reach the highs you know deep down that you won't reach again. This vague desperation leads to quite a sad scene, the sucking of one's soul through their nose in the early morning hours after a late night. It's a smoky boneyard, usually strewn with sneezes, dirty tissues, moist bills, empty bags, drops of blood, and a looming, inevitable despair over what you've done, where you think you'll be, and the overwhelming fear of never getting there again. It's a sad sight, my friends, watching the sun rise through bloodshot eyes, and deep breaths through dry, chafed nostrils. Yet, the sun does rise, and you vow to never find yourself partaking in such reckless debauchery ever again. But everything does indeed change once the sun goes down again. It's just a matter of allure and demise, a dark, dreadfully warped yin and yang.
I'm in no way trying to condone anything. Be safe, as safe as safe can be, if you find yourself amidst these things.
"White tees and trees all day, holla for price". Coded texts or blatant phone calls, the suppliers are still there, and they very well might always be. At the end of the day, though, it's a story to tell. Getting through is the real fight.
As Thoreau said, we are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Build as you see fit, as long as you're prepared to bear the full burden of that which you've done.
Tread cautiously, my dears.
