After the crushing, the sweeping, the slicing, the dicing, more sweeping, more crushing, the scooping, more sweeping, then you notice the arrangement begiin. Small, straight, inch-long thin lines that you can almost smell, already taste. Who has a straw? A dollar? A twenty? You find yourself just staring at the plate, waiting for it to be your turn. Sometimes you're first - it's not quite like smoking a joint, where the person who rolls it gets to take the first puff. Soemone else always goes first.
Or at least that was my experience. I was usually always first because I was a lady among gentlemen. Even if we were the loosest definitition of lady and gentlemen in Baltimore.
So you shove the twenty up your right nostril as you block the left one. (I'm a righty. Well, I used to be. The left one seems to be stronger these days.) You lower your face to the plate/table/mirror/Puff daddy CD cover, and you suck one of the inch-long lines up your nose...
...And all of a sudden, everything is easier and more beautiful and the world is suddenly clear and right. You now have skin as thick as the Berlin Wall so no one could say anything that could hurt you. You aren't afraid to ask the questions you normally dread asking:
"Do you love me?"
"So why don't you love me?"
"Why do you hate me so goddamned much?"
And no matter what the answer is, you just don't fucking CARE because you feel so fucking GREAT. And when you're not asking questions, the stories you hear are the most fascinating stories you've ever been told. So fascinating, in fact, that every single time you hear the same one over and over again, it feels like what Cinderella must have felt like when she first stepped into the palace for the ball... Oh, the magical world of Why Shawn Has Burba Carpet or How Scott Accidentally Ended Up in Maximum Lockup for stealing a golf cart, taking it on the highway and saying he was a security guard when he got pulled over. (FYI: A golf cart just barely falls into the Grand Theft Auto Range, and saying you're a security guard counts as "impersonating an officer of the law." Some stories are valuable nuggets of information.)
And the closeness you feel to the person you're abusing with...
It's as if there is no one else in the world you could ever feel that close to. Ever. Because mixed in with the drugs are inside jokes, a best friend, maybe sex - it's all going up your nose.
But friends don't belong in your nose. Which is something you only realize once it's far too late.