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This diary entry is written by graves. ( View all entries )
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mollyCategory: (general)
Thursday, 1 October 2015
11:30:40 PM (GMT)
“it looks tan.” “it’s supposed to look that way. that’s how you know it’s good.“ “what if they cut it with something?” “this isn’t fucking breaking bad.” i am the danger! “yeah, whatever. i just don’t want to snort baby powder or brown sugar or something.” i am the one who knocks! who will you quote in your obscurity? definitely not goddamn bryan cranston. (RS)-1-(Benzo[d][1,3]dioxol-5-yl)-N-methylpropan-2-amine, C11H15NO2 assuming the shit was pure, anyway. i talked a big game about the color but who knows what the guy on the street corner is throwing at you nowadays days. “watch out rave fam if you’re looking to party and someone hands you some rollers called pink lady it’s def meth“ retweeted it without much thought. jesse pinkman does it and he won an emmy. mdma or meth, the scales don’t really tip. drugs are drugs. i unfolded the gum wrapper frankie was palming and poured $50 of molly or tina or brown sugar out onto a hardback copy of violin. i laid my id flush with one of the tiny rocks and pressed against it, hard. it shuddered and gave way against the tiny square of my face and my date of birth and if i was an organ donor or not. “it breaks up so easily. that shit is definitely cut.“ i ignored him and inspected the 8 neat lines i had raked together. the granular little ant hills winked at me in the harsh florescent light of the kitchen. pure. “here, mcgruff. you can have the first bump.” i handed frankie a sawed off 7/11 straw i kept in a small coin purse that housed the rest of my drug contraband “shut the fuck up, man. excuse me for being cautious.” i could see the excitement in those wet eyes, though. he would snort a ground up pine cone if it got him high. all that bitching was just an act. he claimed he was getting older and needed to go straight, get out of the scene. “i need to stop doing drugs, or at least cut back. be more careful, you know?” he didn’t fool me or anyone else he blew the same hot air at. he bent at the waist and with one swift motion, we were down to 7. he could distance himself all he wanted, but we had this down to a goddamn science. plug up one nostril, straw in the other (not a dollar bill, the fibers soak up the drugs), aim towards your septum, and immediately snort a shot of water to flush back whatever remained in your nose. the jobs and gates of insufflation. he wiped the end of the straw on his sleeve and handed it to me. it ceases to exist without me.
Last edited: 12 April 2016

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