anti-heroin rant based on a girl I knew, circa 1992-3 (??)
| Just what the world was crying out for, another junkie. She’s all about being dangerous, and high, and walking that razor's edge, at least for now. Sooner, rather than later, she’ll be just another dope head, scamming her few remaining friends, and giving some stranger runny nosed head for enough money to nurse her habit through a weekend. It’s no theory, or prediction. It’s an inevitability.
Ask Martin. Party Marty, he sure loved his drugs. A garbage head deluxe, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t try at least once to cop a buzz. Except needles, he always said, no needles for him. That was his line, he wasn’t crossing it. Sniff a bag here, and then two more, soon, a needle starts looking rather economical. Marty’s economizing plenty now, when they found him, he’d been dead for three days and the needle was still in his hand.
Ask Harry. His ex-wife and the kids found him, and his brother, dead and swelling in the July heat, after an especially festive Friday nighter.
Ask Kenny. The narcs were on to his NYC trips, way back when he was sure it was all cool. They pulled him over and found two ounces of smack, enough to pretty much guarantee a lengthy sentence, and then some. Just supporting his habit, economizing again. He chose an O.D. in his car over death in prison.
Ask Ed. He made it nice and simple, he just croaked in his sleep one fine night, and let his mom find his corpse in his bed.
Squeamish about corpses? Then go find Robin. She’s working at that shitty strip bar on the highway tonight, the skinny one wearing too much makeup, wiggling around, letting drunks touch her tits for a dollar, then spending it all on less than a half gram of crap that makes living with her scummy boyfriend semi-tolerable.
Ask Donna, she skipped the stripper routine, and cut right to the chase. Give her a call during the week, when she’s broke and desperate, and she’ll go down on you. How much? How much do you have?
If you doubt the veracity of spokespeople like these, then just take off your shoes, and watch her go. She’ll end up one way, or the other. Best case scenario: she goes detox, and needs a bottle of meds from the feds every week or she’s back feeding on the bottom again. Fucking with that endorphin production sure makes a person do some crazy things. Worst case; two words. Dead hooker. That’s quite an epitaph, not really how I personally hope to be remembered, but I’ve always failed to “get” that romantic, walk on the wild side appeal of heroin, myself.
To each their own, I suppose, but if she comes this way, I’m pretending I don’t see her, and I’m bolting before she tries hitting me up for cash again.