No, I don’t talk about crystal meth a lot. Would you? The world is full of judgmental people ready to label you an addict, conveniently forgetting the substances they funnel into their own bodies, and the reasons they do it. Maybe you’re one of them.
Like you’ve never loaded up on sugar to keep depression from dragging you down. You have never saturated your bloodstream with caffeine to give yourself just one more hour, frantically wasting another sixty minutes of your life. You have never have been swimming in so much alcohol that drowning sounded like a fun proposition.
You have never worshipped a little cylindrical god packed with nicotine, pausing before you lit it to make sure you had at least one more left.
You have never used another person as a tool to hit that orgasmic sweet spot.
In words of my friend DAC: yeah, right.
Another reason I don’t talk about it is because it’s impossible to describe how tweaking feels. I can say that when I shovel a thumb of meth into a can of Red Bull for midnight breakfast, it coasts into me like it’s riding a limousine, but you won’t understand unless you’ve done it. I can say that there’s a little animal that tickles me with its furry hooves, but it would be meaningless. You won’t understand the high of staying up for three days straight. You won’t understand the thrill of watching the city from a distance-the morning coffee scramble, the screams and fights and sales pitches, the squeals and crashes and depressed laughing, the scrape of shoes and tires, the drunken yawns and stumbling home-and being immune to it all.
It’s impossible to explain what being a vampire feels like.
The main reason I don’t talk about it, though, is because I’m not addicted. There’s a difference between a user and an abuser. I know better than to let a drug take over my life.