I’ve been on a binge, shooting and smoking cocaine for 24 hours straight. People have been in and out of my apartment all night, the stain of their presence is noticeable everywhere I look. The place is a mess, every blanket I own is strewn on the living room floor. The TV is turned on but the volume is all the way down. I can hear Elliot Smith’s melancholy voice wafting on the airwaves from a cd player on the floor. The room is dimly lit, outside the sun is just peaking over the horizon on a beautiful spring morning. The citizens of this country are on their way to work. I on the other hand have no job to speak of, and sit up here in my own little hell most of the day.
My hair is in knots, eyeliner is running down my face, I have blood smeared on my t-shirt and arms. From the holes I have poked into my hands and arms with needles full of coke. I look like I recently committed a gruesome murder. I feel some what panicked and I decide to look around my apartment for an Ambien. I hide them on myself because if I didn’t I would take them even though I didn’t need to. Ambien is a sleeping pill, I take to bring me down from the cocaine. It keeps me from getting that trademark coke crash and help me get some sleep.
After searching for an hour, I finally give up looking for the ambien. I turn my attention to the end table. There sits a baggie of white powder cocaine, and a box of baking soda. A few 1cc syringes are scattered about. There is a spoon and lighter sitting on the end table waiting for me. I pour a good amount of coke into the spoon, fill a syringe with some water, and push the water into the spoon with the coke, using the cap of the syringe, I stir the mixture, and I drop my cotton in the spoon and suck the concoction into my syringe. I tie off my already swollen hand with a shoe lace, and my veins reveal themselves.
Before I start to mutilate my hand with this needle full of coke I hesitate, and think about what I am doing. I really hate this drug, all it does is make me anxious and nervous, and I am anxious and nervous naturally. What I really need is heroin, my drug of choice for the past two years, that is until I got strung out, committed a felony, went to rehab, got kicked out of rehab, and found the local methadone clinic which I am still on. So now I guess, I am a methadone addict, and since methadone is an opiate blocker and heroin is an opiate, I cannot get high off heroin or any other opiates. It would be pointless for me shoot up any kind of opiate. So here I am and I need to get high off something.
It costs sixteen dollars a day for the methadone treatment, which I don’t have right now; I spent it all on this binge , this waste of a binge. So I come to the conclusion that this one hit of coke won’t hurt anything, in fact it might help give me the push I need to figure out how to scrounge the sixteen bucks up. So I start stabbing at my hand and the blood finally blossoms into the syringe, and I push the coke home into my vein.