How very noble of me. Following a disturbing Saturday night, I have decided to stop crushing, chopping and snorting crystalline tropane alkaloids up my nose.
There are a number of reasons for this. Firstly, I only ever do it for the buzz, and quite frankly I'm too old to sniff myself temporarily arrogant - plus I was aware that seconds after hoovering up each line, my heart started to race disconcertingly. In your Twenties, a racing heart is almost thrilling. At 36, it's a prelude to coronary thrombosis.
Secondly, I just don't know what's in that shit. I totally blame our society which deems it necessary to prohibit certain substances, despite the guile and cunning of certain admittedly unscrupulous individuals who continue to flood said society with said substances anyway. Regrettably, said prohibition renders safety controls and governing practices totally irrelevant, as said substances are fucking illegal.
Ergo: I could be snorting salt.
Thirdly, I have spent two days blowing my nose and seeing a horror show on my tissue of blood, mucus, cartilage and lung, and I'm not massively impressed.
And fourthly, boy, have I been sad. I've tried to analyse it. It's not been quite as debilitating and miserable as depression, but it has been consistent, and painful like a papercut, as if my soul's been mired in a bath of black treacle. My guess is that in getting that high, the coke 'stole' the happiness that was set aside for the coming week and left in its wake an emptiness, a hollow shell - and that's been rubbish.
I think I take drugs - no, I know I take drugs to escape reality; to do something different and daring, to be dangerous and illegal, because nothing sticks it to The Man quite like snorting. It just isn't a law-abiding verb. And in being different and daring, I'm also sticking it to my fucking day job, and the cold bloody weather, and being single, and the unceasing, relentless monotony of being woken up ahead of schedule by an alarm clock five times a week to commute myself to wage slavery.
But it's nonsense. The 'cure' in itself is as pathetic as the cold I'm trying to alleviate. The hard facts are my job I barely tolerate, an alarm I despise, a commute that bores me, and a brief, two-day window of fun I nearly always waste.
Which is why I do coke from time to time.
Or more accurately, did.
Because whatever the reasons that I do it, well, it just ain't working. It's a con-trick, an escape route. I don't become sexier, or funnier, or more confident. Okay, wait, I do become more confident, but if that's all I do it for, then it costs me £50 a gram to feel like that temporarily.
Of course, I could instead think of the Bigger Picture and write and diet and exercise and get more sleep and maybe cut down on my drinking. On the night I decimated that gram, I was disturbed to find the following morning an empty bottle of Amaretto I'd consumed almost single-handedly, as well as half a bottle of scotch and about five beers - all on an empty stomach.
Ah, fuck it. One vice at a time.