Stupid, stupid, stupid
Final year of university (not first, for a change) and I get a phone call from a friend who I haven't seen for ages and we agree to meet up. We go to a cheap student club, at some stage we stand at the bar, drink tequilas, get belted, dance for a bit -- all standard stuff. Then I feel I want to go home, a procedure that begins with going to the bus stop. This I do. There I make the acquaintance of two extremely shady characters; the part of my brain that usually tells me when people are Up-To-No-Good has unfortunately been deactivated by alcohol. They ask me if I would like to “smoke some gear” and I think, yes a bit of the ol’ mary jane would go done well now, so why the hell not?

So we head off to find a place to “smoke some gear”. Why don’t we just spark up at the bus stop? This is a question that fails to pop into my booze sodden brain. Why are we, in fact going to one of those city loo /automatic cubicle type things, to smoke? Again I don’t ask. We jam ourselves in the thing and smoke a kind of pipe-like device. My brain goes into a very unsteady orbit, just inside the moon’s trajectory. Eventually I notice that the stuff we are smoking is not green or brown but in fact very white. What is it, I ask. Crack, they reply. Marvellous, I say. We leave the toilet and they suggest going to a party where there will be more “gear” and “loose women”. Great, I reply. If they had suggested that I inject heroin into my eyeball with a rusty needle I would have probably agreed to that too. But before we can go to the party they need money, and –whatdoyaknow— there’s a cash machine right there. So I withdraw 50 pounds of my student funds but don’t give it to them. We get into a mini cab, head for the nearest dealer and I hand him the cash instead. Interestingly they keep the stuff in their mouths in small wraps and can talk away without you noticing it’s even there. Anyway, we drive around some more, go to some more toilets, smoke some more crack, and I eventually realise there is no party. I want to go home. Give me some of the gear, I say. After all, it is technically mine. They refuse. Eventually I relent, leave my new found friends to the gradual and wholesale destruction of their lives and wonder home in a daze. I remember my saliva was as thick as glue in my mouth and feeling very very bad about myself.

And that was the story of how I smoked crack when drunk. Needless to say, it hasn’t happened again.
(caspar_ghodd, Fri 19 Mar 2004, 12:04, Reply)