Let’s Talk Coke!!! (A Special Three-Part Series Brought to You by the War on Terror and Mötley Crüe)

Like every asshole, I have a few good coke stories. And let me start with this disclaimer: If you do, indeed, do blow, snort lines, ride the white lightning, go skiing, etc., you are probably most likely an asshole. Life is not a Bret Easton Ellis novel. Grow the fuck up.

That said, let’s talk coke!!!

Three moments in my New York life stand out as life-changing Coke Moments—the fun one going in, the stupid one, and the downright pathetic/scary one going out.

So, while living at 233A, my roommate and I decide to go out on a Thursday night. And where did we go? The Boat, mentioned previously in this blog for its aura of elegance and sophistication, so much so, that you need to Hoover up lines in the bathroom to justify being there in your brain. While my roommate was sucking face with a tall gentleman of Swedish descent, I was stuck playing Wing Woman for his idiot friends, one of which, oh, let’s call him Coke Train, offered me unending pulls of delicious, delicious powder—it was like the never-ending pasta bowl at Olive Garden!—for the paltry sum of pretending to like him. By the time we got home, after the Boat kicked us out, it was around 5 a.m. and I proceeded to go the fridge and crack open a beer.

“Holy shit,” my roommate said. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“No way, man,” I countered. “I’m on the Coke Train!”

Oh, and I was. I couldn’t sleep for shit and the next morning, or, um day, I rolled over and looked at my clock. One p.m. One p.m. on a Friday where I was supposed to be at work. Since I’d left my cell phone in the living room, I found it with several missed calls and messages from my boss. “Shit, shit, shit,” I said, fumbling around, getting ready, slamming coffee, slapping myself in the face. But the problem was, I was still coked up.

When I got to work I found this little e-mail: “Holy shit, dude. I am so tired. I barely made it to work on time!” from the roommate.

I emailed back, “I just made it to work. Now.” It was 2 p.m.

For the rest of that excruciating day under bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights, I started to come down from a very nasty high. I kept telling myself, “Act normal! Act normal!” I could barely focus on the words I was editing on the computer screen. My head could not have hurt worse if there was a tiny Mexican cock fight tournament going on in there.

So, yeah, Coke is Fabulous! As will be evidenced in this next piece, when I explore Part II of Being an Asshole Who Does Coke!

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