Monday, March 8, 2010

From My Early Twenties



I'm beginning to realize the only women who are interested in me live on the other side of the continent.

And that's a safe distance for them.

It's like teasing a tiger in a cage.

One day I'll surprise you all by showing up at your door with a case of beer and a snarl on my face and demand love.

That'd be something.

Something to ponder: is there a woman alive, under the age of 40, that doesn't have a tattoo? Seriously, they're as rampant as earrings.

I've never been a big fan. You want a woman to look innocent on the outside, so that you can pretend to be the first man to defile her.

Crack Story

Believe it or not, I've used crack.

Stop being surprised.

It was the oddest thing. I went with my ex to her friends place and the boyfriend had it – sort of.

It was this super trendy, nice, expensive apartment with a view of Seattle: the whole bit. Definitely not the sort of place you would associate with crack.

They were professionals. She was a programmer and he was an advertising exec or something.

Now, I had met the guy a few times and he always seemed off. He drank more than me (amazing) and directly after shaking his hand for the first time he launched into a story about seeing ancient Egypt on mushrooms.

So, I wasn't totally taken aback, but I'm sure people's idea of a crackhead is some black dude in a gutter.

And you are so racist for thinking that!

Moving right along the land of stereotypes, this guy was Jewish. Now, I've watched enough TV to believe everything it tells me and I don't think of Jewish Advertising execs smoking crack.

So, I'm at this nice apartment and the girls are downstairs and I'm upstairs with him looking for his pot pipe when he asks me to act like we need to go to the store for beer.

See, his girlfriend didn't like the idea of him smoking crack.

Wonder why?

I understood his dilemma; see the other facet of this story is that his girlfriend beat him.

I shit you not. She was verbally and physically abusive to him, in front of us. Not only that, the guy wasn't skin in bones either, he could've beat back. Hell, he coulda kicked my ass.

Anyway, so I make like we need to go get beer and...I find myself buying crack with this guy.

He hits a cash machine and we walk into this park in Pioneer Square and I'm a part of what folklore likes to call "The Drug Deal."

Good Christ!

See what I mean? I may be the prophet of the freaks. They keep coming to me and wanting me to be a part of the circus that is freakdom.

So, we give Huggybear some money and he tells us to meet him at another location, where Pookie comes out and gives us our crack.

We head back, and I'm pretty much certain I will be arrested with every step.

Back at the place, he acts like we're going to go smoke pot and there I am up on this balcony of this awesome loft smoking crack with a gibbering ad man.

The sensation was better than coke, and almost felt like a combo of weed and coke with Viagra. Yes, it hits you in the genitals.

Luckily I had a girlfriend at the time.

So, anytime you see some successful CEO, or some doctor or lawyer: they could be smoking crack.

Anyway, that's my crack story. Talk amongst yourselves.



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