Coke Stupidity
Some people say that coke makes them feel like they are invincible. So far as I can tell, these people apparently get much better blow than I do. When I'm on the sauce, I hardly feel like I can conquer the world, although I often do feel like I am on top of it. If there is anything that coke really makes you do in reality, it is make decisions that are completely idiotic and nonsensical. Take last night, for example.
After a nice little dinner with a bunch of friends, we headed on over to a bar to continue our carousing, conversation, and of course, coke snorting. After a "re-call" to the guy (we quickly ran out of our original supply, and had to call back again to get more), sure as sin, I found myself in the bathroom stall, doing bumps out the back of a Parliament, and lines off the back of my hand. A typical night in Manhattan, it seemed, until I got back upstairs. 3 shots of Patron later, and I could barely see 3 feet in front of me. At some point, somehow, greater wisdom prevailed--I found my coat from under a large pile, and quickly exited the bar, intent on walking home despite the fact that I was a good 20 blocks away. At that point though, I really didn't care. I just needed to get out, and get home, and there wasn't a damn thing that could be done about it.
Unfortunately, I wasn't in much control of my faculties at this point. And so, when I walked out the door of the bar, I immediately made a wrong turn, and headed downtown when I should've started walking North. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the LES (Lower East Side, for the initiated), and hadn't a clue where I was going. So I did what any coked-out drunk would do in such a situation--plotted a bee-line back uptown towards my place. Too bad for me the "bee-line" I plotted included a shady dark alley populated by the worst sort this city has to offer--the desperate drug addict.
Walking through this dark, cliched alley trying to make my way home, I prayed that no one would get in my way. Of course, given that I publicly renounced god long ago, my prayers went unanswered. After 30 seconds into the regret of having chosen this path, I was interecepted by a junkie--a "real" junkie, the kind that digs on actual "junk." I tried the H-bomb a few times years ago, but it really wasn't for me. Too intense, too time consuming, and quite frankly, too much fucking fun. I may be lacking in the self control department, but I knew from the outset that a true taste for the H would be the end of me. So I made a conscious decision--I would let blow ruin my life, for at least blow can be fun in groups at parties, and it doesn't leave track marks, to boot. This dude, on the other hand, apparently never learned that lesson.
He quickly got in my face, and as you no doubt guessed, demanded that I hand over my money. Now, I've been mugged before. Living in NYC, it's practically a right of passage. So unlike the first time, I wasn't shitting in my pants. More importantly, unlike the first time, I was on copious amounts of blow. As such, I wasn't working with much of a thought process. And so, we come back to a classic moment of "coke stupidity."
Instead of giving the junkie (and believe me, I understand the irony of judging someone by calling them a "junkie") what little loot I had left in my wallet, I opted for a different, more aggressive course. I reached for my wallet, put the mugger at ease by making it look like I would oblige, and suddenly, without warning, kicked him as hard as Icould, square in the nuts. As he fell to the ground in horror, I took off like the wind, oblivious to everything and everyone around me as I desperately tried to find my way home. Not even a block away, I knew that he wouldn't follow me. I was sure that he wouldn't be getting off the ground for some time. Nonetheless, I booked the entire way home, got inside, and collapsed on my bed. A few hours later, I woke up, fully clothed, on my floor, wondering if the whole thing had been but a dream.
But when I took off my pants and checked my pockets, I knew that my night had been real. What I found, of course, was a full bag of blow left from the second call to the guy, the bag I hadn't managed to get to, because I drank so much at the bar and was forced to make my dramatic escape. So of course, I did what any normal drug enthusiast would at 6 am--I lined up a few rails on my desk, put em in the brain, and watched informercials for 3 hours. At some point, I fell asleep, only to wake up much later, at 7 pm, wondering where the hell the day had gone.
Ah, a typical "coke Saturday," completely destroyed by the coke stupidity of the previous evening. Anybody got anything going on tonight?
After a nice little dinner with a bunch of friends, we headed on over to a bar to continue our carousing, conversation, and of course, coke snorting. After a "re-call" to the guy (we quickly ran out of our original supply, and had to call back again to get more), sure as sin, I found myself in the bathroom stall, doing bumps out the back of a Parliament, and lines off the back of my hand. A typical night in Manhattan, it seemed, until I got back upstairs. 3 shots of Patron later, and I could barely see 3 feet in front of me. At some point, somehow, greater wisdom prevailed--I found my coat from under a large pile, and quickly exited the bar, intent on walking home despite the fact that I was a good 20 blocks away. At that point though, I really didn't care. I just needed to get out, and get home, and there wasn't a damn thing that could be done about it.
Unfortunately, I wasn't in much control of my faculties at this point. And so, when I walked out the door of the bar, I immediately made a wrong turn, and headed downtown when I should've started walking North. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the LES (Lower East Side, for the initiated), and hadn't a clue where I was going. So I did what any coked-out drunk would do in such a situation--plotted a bee-line back uptown towards my place. Too bad for me the "bee-line" I plotted included a shady dark alley populated by the worst sort this city has to offer--the desperate drug addict.
Walking through this dark, cliched alley trying to make my way home, I prayed that no one would get in my way. Of course, given that I publicly renounced god long ago, my prayers went unanswered. After 30 seconds into the regret of having chosen this path, I was interecepted by a junkie--a "real" junkie, the kind that digs on actual "junk." I tried the H-bomb a few times years ago, but it really wasn't for me. Too intense, too time consuming, and quite frankly, too much fucking fun. I may be lacking in the self control department, but I knew from the outset that a true taste for the H would be the end of me. So I made a conscious decision--I would let blow ruin my life, for at least blow can be fun in groups at parties, and it doesn't leave track marks, to boot. This dude, on the other hand, apparently never learned that lesson.
He quickly got in my face, and as you no doubt guessed, demanded that I hand over my money. Now, I've been mugged before. Living in NYC, it's practically a right of passage. So unlike the first time, I wasn't shitting in my pants. More importantly, unlike the first time, I was on copious amounts of blow. As such, I wasn't working with much of a thought process. And so, we come back to a classic moment of "coke stupidity."
Instead of giving the junkie (and believe me, I understand the irony of judging someone by calling them a "junkie") what little loot I had left in my wallet, I opted for a different, more aggressive course. I reached for my wallet, put the mugger at ease by making it look like I would oblige, and suddenly, without warning, kicked him as hard as Icould, square in the nuts. As he fell to the ground in horror, I took off like the wind, oblivious to everything and everyone around me as I desperately tried to find my way home. Not even a block away, I knew that he wouldn't follow me. I was sure that he wouldn't be getting off the ground for some time. Nonetheless, I booked the entire way home, got inside, and collapsed on my bed. A few hours later, I woke up, fully clothed, on my floor, wondering if the whole thing had been but a dream.
But when I took off my pants and checked my pockets, I knew that my night had been real. What I found, of course, was a full bag of blow left from the second call to the guy, the bag I hadn't managed to get to, because I drank so much at the bar and was forced to make my dramatic escape. So of course, I did what any normal drug enthusiast would at 6 am--I lined up a few rails on my desk, put em in the brain, and watched informercials for 3 hours. At some point, I fell asleep, only to wake up much later, at 7 pm, wondering where the hell the day had gone.
Ah, a typical "coke Saturday," completely destroyed by the coke stupidity of the previous evening. Anybody got anything going on tonight?
posted by J at 10:13 PM
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