Morning Snots

In the days after a major coke binge (such as the one I found myself in the throws of on new years eve), the matter that emanates from my nose is, in a word, spectacular.

I've been doing coke for long enough now to know that it's no good for my sinuses. I've had my fair share of bloody noses, sinus infections, and have been warned twice now by my ENT that I need to "curtail the partying," for the sake of my septum. Yet somehow, those things never give me pause about hitting the old bullet fortnightly. What does scare me, however, is when I blow large chunks of what appear to be bloody bits of sinus membrane out of my nose while sitting at my desk at work (yes, believe it or not I still hold down a "day job," albeit a dead-end, mindless one).

This morning, 4 days after the New Years festivities, I felt a tingle in my right nostril. Yet upon blowing my nose, I realized that there was nothing in there. Nonetheless, I knew that something wasn't right. Something felt a little loose--as if a snot was ready to blow, yet it wasn't there. After nearly a decade of coke abuse, I've been quite familiar with this phenomenon--the phenomenon of the "deep snot." You know, the one that you can feel in your face, but can't feel if you stick your finger up your nose (note: when the "deep snot" has hairs in it, it is known as a "mexican"). And until the "deep snot" is out, the discomfort is so palpable that you can do nothing but continue to blow, until it lodges itself loose.

Of course, in recent years, I learned that the "deep snot" is not snot at all, but rather is dead sinus tissue shed by my system because of the ravages of coke use. Usually, these bits have been small enough that when they came out, I didn't think anything was really wrong. This morning, however, I blew out a bit of tissue which, I kid you not, was the size and consistency of a large oyster. Of course, the mix of green snot and red blood clot color (doesn't this sound like it should be a marshmallow in a children's cereal?) was quite different than the coloration of your typical Blue Point, but in all other respects, it looked like it might've come right off the half-shell as opposed from out of my nose. After staring at it on the tissue in disbelief, praying that it wasn't actually a small chunk of brain, I noticed the red on the tissue getting a little darker and wetter. Of course, the blood was running from my nose, and I had to jet to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and wait for it to subside.

Out of necessity, I've become a veritable expert in stopping nosebleeds over the years, so stopping it was quite easy. Unfortunately, I couldn't stop it without needing to go to the bathroom. You see, for me, there's nothing more embarrassing than running past secretary's and co-workers--who already think I am a crackhead because of the bags under my eyes, my constant sniffles and dilated pupils, and my general anti-social behavior--with blood dripping from my nose. Believe it or not, there's no more warning to me that I should get clean than when old Italian secretaries from Staten Island whisper to each other about me as I pass by. One would think that my doctor telling me to get off the sauce would do the trick. But if anything, it'll be the whispers of my co-workers that will force me onto the wagon. Well, either that or getting canned when my boss catches me doing key-bumps in my cubicle.

Unfortunately for my nose, however, it'll take a helluva lot more jeers than I experienced during my bathroom run this morning to separate me and my white lady. At this point I still have no intention of stopping. Perhaps I'll slow down a bit, or take a few days off to heal, or maybe I'll find a more novel way to ingest the ol' Edgar Winter that doesn't entail snorting or smoking (any ideas?). But until my nose falls off, or until my heart stops, I don't plan to. Perhaps I have a problem?