Not to sound like a public service announcement, but I’m going on record as saying, "Nothing good ever comes of cocaine."
I hate to blow anyone’s cover here, and I certainly won’t name any names, but after 23 years in this city, I’ve concluded that the economy of Atlanta, Georgia, is based primarily on the distribution and consumption of low-grade cocaine. This might be true in all major cities, or it might just be illustrative of the quality of people I associate with, but rarely does an evening pass without someone suggesting the purchase of a large bag of the devil’s dandruff.
Why they can’t just drink into blissful unconsciousness, I don’t know. Is it pleasurable staying up until 10 in the morning, sitting around a kitchen counter with half a dozen other fiending coke-monkeys licking the insides of little plastic baggies and making brotherly promises to each other that you’ll never remember the next day, much less act upon? I’m certainly no anti-drug harpy – people in glass houses can cut up lines on just about anything, you know – but I’m just not impressed by the inevitable results of a night of heavy snow-blowing. Almost without exception, it ends up with this scenario: one or two people with an eight ball talking wildly about stupid shit and constantly wiping their noses while four or five Snorty McSnortersons who either exhausted their own supplies, or were too damned poor to buy it in the first place, stare intently at The Guy With The Bag and weigh the appropriateness of asking for another bump so soon.
Some people will argue that dealing and/or possessing coke is good for picking up women, but that is not entirely true. Yes, more skanky cheese-whores will want to be around you, but they’re here for the drugs and not you. If they get desperate, they’ll probably fuck you, but have you ever had coked-up sex? Two sniffling zombies rutting uncoordinatedly and slapping their non-aroused genitals together, neither thinking about each other, but about doing another line. The whole process is like trying to stuff an oyster into a parking meter, and, in the end, the only wet spot on the bed is probably snot.
Put the cheese down, people. There are so many other superior drugs that are cheaper, more fun, and free of the torturous, six hour “coming down’ period that happens after you finally run out of supplies. And, with the proper combination, you can get all the pros of doing cocaine, without the many cons. Alcohol will make you as social as coke, but you can (and probably will) still pass out at the end of the night. If you enjoy having drug-fiend bitches hanging around, a large supply of X will attract the skeezers as easily as blow, plus, the girls will be touchy-feely instead of skittish and sketchy. If you absolutely MUST stay up all goddamned night long, try taking a half-dose of acid – not enough to send you into psychosis, but enough to keep that tingle going so you can’t fall asleep for eight hours. Luckily though, once it wears off, it’s done – you don’t have to keep re-upping all night long. All these options are cheaper than cheesing, though equally effective, and will probably make you a less annoying person to hang out with. I would’ve liked to put more effort into this editorial because it’s something I really believe in, but, unfortunately, I’ve got to go blow my nose. More to come…
Got this from Consumption Junction that I think says it all about coke.