I’m addicted to crack

Yes, you read the title right. And although crack isn’t technically physically addictive (that is to say, smoke it enough and your body will never become dependent on it), it is psychologically addictive, to the absolute max.

And stupid, stupid me decided it might be a good idea to smoke a lot of it, and now I can’t stop.

Alongside crack I am also doing coke upwards of 25 times a day. If you, faithful reader, can recall my post where I tracked how many times in one day I did cocaine (23 I think?) you’ll know that this number is not completely ridiculous.

The thing is, and I really don’t know how to put this, is that I am such a middle class addict.

I love smoking crack, and listening to the Mamma Mia soundtrack, and singing along with the wonderful Meryl Streep. I love waking up, doing the first line of cocaine for the day that I laid out the night before as my wake up line, and getting in the shower and using imperial leather shower gel. I thoroughly enjoy going for long walks in the neighbourhood and chatting to neighbours, going for cups of tea with friends and going to the cinema…whilst on cocaine. I make an excuse to leave for a moment and pop off to the loo and make a lovely little line and snort it up my nose. It’s this scary gangster rap drug, but actually for me it just isn’t like that. It’s not scary. Cocaine is not evil; crack is not bad. To me they are simply ways to function at a higher level, to either chill out or to be on my game.

It gets dark when I don’t do it. The walls start closing in and I feel so weak, lightheaded and angry. The world is not my friend any more. I feel bitter, and, almost like a jilted lover, seek my revenge on the world for daring to break my tired heart.

It’s amazing, safe, fun, exciting, necessary, required, desperate, maddening, awful and horrific all at once. And I can’t stop.

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