Magic in Manhattan: When Calamity stole the drugs from the drug dealer
Okay motherfuckers, here we go. I’m not proof reading this, it’s too long and painful.
This past weekend I revisited my inner child and did a fuck load of coke. When I say my inner child, I mean my inner child over the age of 16 as I wouldn’t want to be considered unfit to care for my inner child. And when I say a fuck load, I mean why am I not dead from an OD because I clearly don’t know when to say when but I am pretty sure that I should have stopped sometime on Saturday morning, but instead went all the way until Sunday morning.
Bruce hates this shit. He’s already expressed all the reasons why and what for (mostly I have no argument or recourse because it is kind of illegal) that he hates this (this being my wanton wantonness). I know that I should grow up and blah blah blah, but the truth is I don’t have to, for now.
I knew that this weekend in New York was going to be epic, we all did. I have been preparing myself for this for a month. Bruce was told that I was going to go off into the wild blue yonder and bury myself Pacino style (say hello to my little friend). A lasting hurrah before I moved.
(Someone brought to my attention the fact that I haven’t been totally clear. I am moving away from Boston this fall. Soon I will be coming to you from the other coast. San Francisco to be almost exact.)
So, because I am absolutely not allowed to be a coke whore when I move.
and before people get all shitty about this: I am really ready to stop doing drugs. I know it seems like fun and I am so very good at it. My friends here are concerned that I am sacrificing a piece of me to make Bruce happy. I just think that they forget, while they were all being good boys and girls and leading productive adult lives, I was doing K in London nightclubs and wondering why everything was moving so fast. I was dropping E while messing around with the gay glitterati living the life. Also, I was vomiting blow on the feet of the Virgin Mary. Quite frankly, I am tired of being so banged up all the time. I hate loosing my Saturday and Sunday because I played hard on Friday night. This shit is too good and too much fun and too heavy to go on much longer. It’s also not cool to get to an airport and worry that you might have a bag left somewhere that you forgot. Residue will get you 20 and I have no intention of going to jail for what happened last weekend, especially as I am not the one who caused all the trouble.
Ages ago I told Bruce that this past weekend I was going to go out and go hard.
See, that is the other thing. The Boston crew here keeps saying that they don’t think it’s right to have to hide shit blah blah blah. But I don’t. I know that they don’t believe me, but I really don’t. I wasn’t the one hiding from my best friend all night because she would be upset knowing that I was using drugs (that was the Pretty Boy) and I wasn’t the one saying that my significant other has no idea about what I do when I am away (that was Angry A). I am getting heat from the people here because they don’t get the fact that as up tight as Bruce seems (sorry babe!) we will never keep things from each other. Back to the point.
The Boston group found our way to New York, I flew down on Friday after work, which is normally easy except the Big Dig tunnels are closed because a ceiling panel fell on a car a crushed a woman to death (oops). Friday was manic and by the time I found my way to Calamity and Jane’s apartment I was ready to lay down and sleep. A bottle of wine prevented that and as the crowd trickled in and the lines were laid out, I miraculously found a wellspring of energy. Funny that.
Cut to Saturday morning, 4 AM and people are leaving the apartment and I have a moment of clarity. Except I’ve forgotten it now. What good are drug-induced epiphanies if you can’t remember them?
Saturday became a day of rest. Saturday night became a night of unrest.
We came to the party to party like it was 1999 (pot brownies and E were the plans) but the dealer fell through so we called in a back up (there is always a back up) and did what we do best. (Why hello Ben, so lovely to see you again, would you mind if I use you as a straw?) We also knew that we were going to get screwed on the bar tab (like always) so we set a plan in action. Our plan failed mostly because Calamity was too busy stealing the drugs from the drug dealer.
So, if you read the original story of Calamity, you know, already, kind of fucked up. But we’re his friends so we never think about what it really means when we say that he’s a mess. On Saturday night, Calamity noticed that the dealer was a mess (looked like a K hole to me). Calamity decided to take the drugs and not pay for them. He also decided to then leave the club, without telling his girlfriend or best friends.
The dealer comes to and realizes that he’s missing some money or someone took his stash. It was at this point, he loudly proclaims that he is going to kill the motherfucker who stole his drugs. We take this as a sign that it was time to leave the club. Which was a pain because we were in a perfect place (VIP lounge with no cameras so we had free reign to behave as we saw fit).
Returning to Calamity’s apartment was an ordeal of course because you know how it is. Who wants to go back to the apartment of the guy who’s about to be shot? After the endless drunken/high debates we all went back the Calamity’s place but the mood was decidedly dejected. Seriously, what the fuck?
There’s more blow, but at this point, we’re just chasing a high. At a certain point, there is nowhere else to go but down, and while it’s great to put the down off for as long as possible, everything comes to an end eventually. Most of the crowd wandered off into the day (the day being Sunday) except the hanger-ons. The hanger-ons are the people who hang out until the coke is gone. Then they split. Never fails. The hanger-on in this case was possibly the biggest fucking tool I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (I FUCKED THIS UGLY GIRL WITH MY LARGE DICK. YOU WOULD FUCK ME WOULDN’T YOU? IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT I AM UNATTRACTIVE. YELL YELL YELL. I AM SO INSECURE AND ANNOYING I WILL KEEP TALKING ABOUT ALL THE SEX I WAS GETTING IN COLLEGE FOUR YEARS AGO). The guy was so full of shit and terribly annoying. Who admits to going hogging because they don’t think they can get attractive woman to a group of strangers? When he turned to me and tried to be very impressive I was my usual self and cut his small dick down to size (scorch scorch scorch: how do you like me now bitch?). Needless to say he didn’t have anything to say to me for the rest of the night (morning).
Dumber and his friends (who were brought to the party by someone we knew, but the someone we knew left at 2 AM) left at 10 AM on Sunday and we proceeded to sigh with relief. Sunday disappeared in a haze of sleep and hamburgers and bled into Monday.
Shit, Monday was yesterday. Yes. Indeed. My yesterday was fantastic. Especially the three hours in the middle of the day. I think I lost them. They were simply nowhere to be found. Flying home on Monday morning was terrible, but the idea of being on a plane on Sunday night was unfathomable.
Today is better. I no longer feel like my large intestines are fighting their way out of my body and the shakes have stopped. Always good because I have a big presentation today at work.
$360 will get you: roundtrip Boston to New York airfare, five cab rides, 1 bottle of wine, 2 pot brownies, several eight balls, a bunch of vodka, four packs of cigarettes (also I had a green curry, half a hamburger, and a piece of apple pie. Some Girl cannot live on drugs and alcohol alone).
PS. And when I said that Bruce seems up tight, he’s not, it’s just because he wears pleated pants and he tucks his shirt in and he hasn’t been to the beach in forever and couldn’t remember the last time he walked on a beach barefooted, but really, he’s not up tight. I swear. Okay, maybe a little but only when compared to my complete inability to be any sort of tight. Next to a normal person, Bruce is entirely normal. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. That might be a ginormous exaggeration. Bruce is so not normal. What he is, is terribly annoying (you know you deserve that don’t you).