By anonymous

Just sayin...

It’s Friday night and I’m home, nursing a cocktail, reading Neon Angel. Like a radar, I sense drugs and commotion emptying into the streets. I don’t feel lonely. I’m calm and enjoying the quiet evening but it’s an old kind of thing to do — even old for my age.

Abstaining from drug use is sometimes difficult. The addiction never permanently settled for whatever reason but I get cravings for chunky powder cut into razor thin lines; a carved sliver of a straw, or the dirty end of jangling keys. And God, how I’d like to be in a club or a seedy bar, bumping my way through people to the privacy of a bathroom with a securable lock, and once inside, I’ll snort heaven and feel the high shimmering through the vortex of my soul; my fingers tracing the bathroom graffiti, looking for my name etched on the wall. If the drug was placed before me, right now, I’d swallow it through my nostrils and cough a cool exhilarating sensation.

I like drugs — there’s no denying it but I enjoy my sharp mind more. I don’t know how [FRIEND'S NAME WITHHELD] does it. He and I share a similar zeal for engaging the New York night with a bag of drugs and money reserved for exotic drinks. He’s sober now; not even alcohol to tame his urges. I, on the other hand, could rally around a dealer for a 50 bag or so.

I’m only a phone call away…