A Letter to Cocaine in Musings

Dear Cocaine,

Hi, I’m one of the thousands of millions of people you inhabit. I know your power, however, I know that you’re weak within me if I only have you… Because I’m addicted to the by-product you make when mixed with alcohol—cocaethelyne, a much more dangerous experience.

I hate that you’ve made me this way. I’m so happy and beautiful without you but, then again—I don’t feel as elated without you after a bottle of champagne… And maybe this is a message to you to Sir Alcohol, I feel so dreary with you… Yet, when you’re both together… I am complete or at least a semblance of completion do both of your chemistry make.

Miss Cocaine—I fucking hate you in the morning, you make me hallucinate all night, you tell me I’m the best, you clear out my insecurities of being the ugly duckling, the gay boy, the labels that everyone has ever put on me, being beat up because the ignorant children considered me a transvestite or a trans-sexual—I ran for my life to not get beat up… But yet, you don’t make me feel better about how I’m a complete person–a secure person—a secure man… Yet, you make me feel brand new.

You’re a piece of shit that destroys my sinus passages and my body… You make me thinner and all of the good things you allowed me to achieve through you’re guidance and high, is all destroyed. Louboutins don’t mean shit if I’m so emaciated, they don’t mean shit if I still am a little boy re-living being bullied.

The fucked up thing about you Ms. Cocaine is that you never built my self-esteem… You superficially created me, made me feel I was powerful, made me feel like a man, allowed me to see the world, but just like a wave—you graze on the shore, and you sweep back into the ocean. I could never attain the goals and ideas you create in me. I can snort you, absorb you, revel in you and in the morning you don’t fucking exist… And I’m left feeling even emptier… Even more pathetic than what I started.

In the morning you don’t fucking exist. I’m left here bare and broken.

For some reason I have chosen to use you. And every day I do use you I feel disgusting, and empty. Yet, I continue to destroy myself, perpetually—consistently and still pay to see you.

Am I beautiful when I see you? Does it fix the marriage I left? Does it fix the life I’ve lived? Are you fixing the pain I feel and the shit I never want to ever feel?

Or are you just a fixture in the glamorous life I’m trying to project? Because you’re one step away from crack, two steps away from Crystal Meth and three steps away from me ruining my life and the finances I’ve created.

It might seem stupid and crazy to everyone else… Every time I take a line, buy $450 worth of you, take a bump or a little mound of you on the meat of my hand, I always am thinking “What does my grandmother think? And when my mom dies, what will she see looking down at me from heaven?” I’m a fucking mess, a mess that has all his shit together but is two minutes away from dying himself. I think that my grandmother in spirit is watching me crying, seeing me, the heir to her life line, one of the most successful heirs to the fruits of her loins… Considering that all my cousins are losers, working in retail, no college degree and no trade degree… And I feel like she is looking down at me while I take hits of you, devour you and chug a bottle of veuve, and she’s angry and crying. It might be insane that I say that, but I feel her energy and her presence telling me that I’m too good for you and that I’m dying because of you. Yet, I revel within you and everything you offer me…

I hear my abuela saying to me in tears that i disappoint her because she’s protected me for so long, through homelessness, drinking bleach suicide, to the recreation of me and absolving my life to be better.

Fuck it. Miss Cocaine, fuck it—I’m fucking crazy. I’m fucking insane and maybe I’m schizophrenic and bi polar and manic depressive, but you exacerbate all of those feelings.

Every week I want to quit you. And I succeed not touching you Tuesday through Friday… And I don’t even touch you on Saturdays, but I can’t leave myself or you after 7 days and I find you and feel your powdery evil through my nostrils, dripping in my sinuses and falling on to the pillar of my mouth. Dripping bitterly like the rind of a grapefruit.

You’re a fucking monster. I fucking can’t stand anything about you, how you leave me horny and sad. How you leave me disgusted about myself. How you bite my lips and immerse yourself through every inch of my body.

I don’t know what to do with you… Luckily, I’m a very strange addict. I look for you when I want you, I spend money on you when I have it, I seek for the happiness you provide for me when I’m lonely and pathetic.

I’m a fucking weird addict and I know I am. You alone don’t provide me bliss… I need alcohol to accompany you… I’m smart enough that I realize that cocaethelyne is my drug of choice…

Alcohol by itself I hate. You by itself I can’t tolerate because of my already anxious predisposition. Combined I am ruining the ONLY body I have been given.

Luckily I don’t sleep around if I don’t want to. Luckily although I become really horny with you and alcohol I’m too shy and stand-offish when it comes to sex. Luckily I don’t sell my body chasing after you.

I’m just a hot mess. However, you’re the culprit of my demise.

Love me. Please forgive me. Please accept me. Please realize that all these stupid labels and name brands I wear are a culmination of me wanting to be a part of a world I will never be fully accepted in to.

Love me, please.
Everything is lonely.
Everything is endless, but your gone by the morning.

I wash my face and I see a reflection of me that I have to buff off.

The love you sell me in the evening by the morning doesn’t fucking exist!

I’m dying and you don’t give a fucking shit. I’ll die from you numbing me, and you’ll just smile at me saying I killed all that pain you felt.

I hate you, but you make me feel so happy. It’s so complicated.

Xox
Andy.