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When This Meth Thing Blows Over, You'll Come Crawling Back

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When This Meth Thing Blows Over, You'll Come Crawling Back

Why so down in the dumps, vato? Man, you don't look so good. What happened, artillery-shell blow half your face off? What's that? You're hooked on methamphetamine? You're kidding, right? Isn't that what they used to give depressed house-pets? Well, enjoy it while you can, kid, because the novelty won't last. I promise you right now that soon enough, that little glass pipe of yours will be collecting dust in a cockroach-infested corner as you sit hunched over that traffic-sign-on-cinderblocks you use for a table, reacquainting yourself with your old powdery amigo blanco.

I remember when you were all jazzed for angel dust. Next was the crack version of me, followed by—what was that shit—OxyContin? ¡Ay, dios mio! But the good times never last: You always need more, more, more just to get the same high, and soon you're hanging out at highway weigh-stations, blowing 300-pound truckers for two bucks.

Mi querido, you could've had that with me all along. Look, when fabulous, kick-ass rock-star me is around, everything else is redundant. Unless you're into LSD or mushrooms, in which case I say, go fuck a sunset, hippie. I'm my own gateway drug, baby!

And isn't crystal meth basically just chemicals, man? Don't you have to set up a bunch of flasks and beakers and Bunsen burners in your kitchen and boil down a ton of stuff to get maybe half-an-ounce of the shit? Whatever. Sounds boring. Of course, I'm all coca leaves, 100 percent natural, made with love in the jungles of Colombia.

Jesus fucking Christ, I'm so much better I could go on for pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages and pages.

Three great things about me: Uno, you can snort big fat lines of me wherever there's a flat surface, from mom's vanity mirror to the disco bathroom. Dos, it's always been my personal guarantee that you will be the sharpest, funniest, hottest, fiercest, whip-fucking-smartest motherfucker in the place. Tres, no open sores. Might have some nose-cartilage issues, but nothing anyone can actually see.

Know what the best thing to do when you're on me is? Rent a penthouse suite, open the window, stand out on the ledge, and bay at the moon. With meth, you're too busy counting the teeth on the rug to see the big picture. Sure, you have your euphoric moments, but do you ever feel like a quicksilver Jesus who knows all, sees all, and is all? It's better than anything. It's better than the end of Rocky.

You need meth to get off? That is just sad. Hello!—why do you think they call me "blow"? Actually, I'm not sure why I'm called blow. This might sound weird coming from me, but it just ain't right to use drugs for sexual benefit. Should you feel like you can fall 20 feet and not get hurt, or plunge your hand into a flame and not feel it, or put your fist through a glass coffee-table and not notice all the bleeding? Absolutely. But to smoke or snort something just to feel sensations you should feel naturally? That's malas noticias in my book.

I'm the biggest cash crop in three countries. Who can say that about crystal meth? Bakersfield, California? I am an international powerhouse: For every ounce of me you've snorted, at least two people have died. I'm talking deadly airlifts out of the jungle, thrilling speedboat shootouts, spectacular daylight assassinations of politicians, executions of informants, electrodes on villagers' genitals—name it, it's there. And I'm not even counting the me-fueled spree killings.

Know what? Fuck you. I'm no sloppy seconds. You know who's doing me right now, as we speak? Charlie fucking Sheen. I don't need you. I'm a star. So suck it, you little corn-fed scarecrow. Go back to slopping pigs and huffing nail-polish remover, you raggedy-ass hick.

Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I take that back. I miss you, baby. We were great together. I just want it to be the way it was. Up all night, talking about whatever's on your mind. Dancing till the sun comes up. Just you and me and several of your friends.

Hey, it's all good. No worries. Because I know you'll be back. You've never been able to resist me. I can wait as long as it takes because I'm forever, amigo.  If you need me, I'll be in the restroom of a Philadelphia law firm, up a paralegal's nose.

Cocaine is a longtime stimulant synthesized from the leaves of the coca plant. It maintains residences in Miami and Bogota.

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