I doubt I've used the stalls at the cinema for their intended purpose since I turned sixteen. My friends would file into the theatre and I would excuse myself to the cold tiled restrooms. Locking myself in amongst lover's graffiti I would unwind that small bag being hit with the smell of every noxious chemical cut in that simple white powder. A burning nasal anticipation hits with that scent. That caustic, burning, chemical dump scent. When that momentary ecstasy of anticipation subsides it is time to put the tools of the trade in line. A razorblade, a surface of some type and a straw or rolled bill. My preferred surface has always been a mirror or compact of some sort though anything flat will do and credit cards are useful in a crunch. I have one compact in particular that has been sacrificed to my drug of choice. I can see myself through the dusty film, the remnants of past lines scattered across the reflective surface. The razorblade I use is old; dulled on my flesh and covered in rusted fingerprints. I keep it cradled in my compact and it's always ready; a sort of "coke kit" if you will. I keep a one dollar bill always rolled via some type of cocaine origami I learned on the internet. Cocaine is my profession and I'm damn good at my job. I dump one of the small rocks out onto the mirror and use the end of some lipstick to crush it hastily. The razorblade aids me as I scrape the last remnants off the lipstick and then lick it clean. I turn to the crushed powder with surgical precision and begin to break it into fine grains. I've seen people rush through this. More of the blow ends up on the floor than in their nose and they often leave it so poorly broken up that their line is more of a row of small rocks. Rocks won't get absorbed. You won't get high. I take my time. I don't have money to burn and I need to make this g last as long as possible.
I am not proud of my life and what you mistake for pride is more so a cry for help. Dependency is not something that anyone should ever be proud of. I am still in part the silly little girl who was enthralled by the sordid world of drug addiction. I still sometimes find myself romanticizing the events of my life. They, though, can only be romantic in the eyes of that naive girl who knew nothing about addiction. You can never have the horrors of addiction and dependence truly explained to you. It is something that is impossible to truly understand until you have felt it. This is one of a slew of reasons that quitting is so hard. People who have never acknowledged or felt the pangs of addiction do not understand the terror at the thought of 'just stopping'. 'Just stopping' is unfathomable because contemplating it means facing the rush of what ifs and scenarios where the only possible solution is your drug of choice. I count to 70 and can only think of a gram. I roll ones almost instinctively. And it finally crosses my mind that there will never be a day in the rest of my life that I don't think about it at least once. I'm learning though –however slow – that it is not the drugs fault that my life has fallen to shambles. I choose to bump that first line and in turn I chose this life. A lifestyle of sex for drugs and fuck rock n' roll 'cause it gives my sleep deprived self a headache. There's nothing romantic about licking crumbs of cocaine off of the bathroom floor.