A Experiment in the Human Body's Tolerance to Toxins
I don’t know what I’m setting out to do here. I don’t want this to turn out like a “trip report”, or something idiotic like that. I’m going for Gonzo journalism. Hunter S. Thompson; Kerouac shit. I don’t know how to start to even establish a hint of structure or intellectualism, so I think I’ll write it without much thought.
After leaving my workplace, Chick-Fil-A, at about 10:45, I phoned my mom. I told her I’d be spending the night at my friend Max’s house, going directly from work to there. It’s not as if this was totally unreasonable, for I have done it. It’s odd; it seems my mother establishes trust in me at the worst times possible. Occasionally, half-crocked and a bit depressed, I feel better for deceiving her, but I know I mean well.
Earlier that day, during my lunch/cigarette break, my friend Alex stopped by to pick up about 25 dollars, for a pack of cigarettes and my share of an 8-Ball of cocaine. Alex must know people I don’t, because we were paying 120 dollars all together, which is a remarkable deal. Anyways, I suppose everything went according to plan, because after I called my mom, I called Alex and met him at another friend’s house, Lindsey Dodds. Lindsey was at a party when we arrived, so we sat on the porch, relaxing with her sister Laura. After a very, very short time, we went into the master bathroom and poured all of the blow on the sink top. After five minutes of finagling with breaking rocks and chopping lines, we each sniffed lines, Laura two, Alex and I three. 30 seconds after insullfation and rubbing stray rocks on our gums, we all were immediately and noticeably high. A cool wave of euphoria passed through me, my front teeth and outer extremities getting numb. The unbreakable happiness of cocaine is hard to explain, the best I can conjure is a comparison to getting sleepy. It comes on from nowhere, and you don’t notice the coming up, but you are immediately aware of being high. Everything is fine, perfect, and agreeable.
Alex did indeed get quite a deal, as I have done grams of other batches of cocaine (apparently, cut with BC Powder), but was never as intensely high as I was that night.
Back to the porch we went, our jaws spewing fragments and run-ons, anecdotes and agreements, and sniffling and smiling all the way. Alex saved half the ball, so this left us maybe three grams for the rest of the night. People began arriving, many stoned and drunk, and I made friends. These were people I would even consider starting a conversation with: Menacing drug dealers, imposing hip-hop car fabricators, large-breasted floozy girls, and very drunk, very angry metal heads. After hours of talking with this rather eclectic crowd, I made a now hazy realization. The most interesting people I meet in my adventures of the shiftless lay bouts, the fuck-ups. Smart, witty, talented, complete failures. They don’t know what the future is going to be, therefore they live now. I only hope I can stay surrounded by them.
Throughout these hours of uninhibited shit-shooting, Alex, Laura, and I finished the half left on the bathroom counter. It’s a wonder to me how I remember anything or anyone at that house. Everything is foggy and I seem to have a case of dyslexia. Finally, at about 12:30, Alex left to sleep at his house. I wasn’t uncomfortable, unlike most parties filled with unknowns. I, unable to go home, had the plan to sleep at the Dodd’s. A bald, tattooed 20-year-old named Manny implored me to buy a bottle of rum with him, and a girl whose name I’m not clear on and probably isn’t worth remembering anyway. I had eight dollars left after the drugs and cigarettes, so I emptied my funds. Manny left and I went on, smoking cigarettes, unsure of what the future held for me. That’s what I wanted, right?
The rest of the night, soon.
Current Mood: blank
Current Music: The Strokes 'Is This It?' Album