The Crystal Meth Playbook

The Crystal Meth Playbook

Remember the buzz you got when you took some over-the-counter cold med to get through work? Well, multiply that by a thousand and you have some idea what it’s like to be on that Big Bad Wolf, Meth.

As someone who’s done the shit every which way, who better to tell you the cold hard facts?

First, what’s meth’s allure?

It puts you in the most euphoric, sensual state you will ever experience in your life, and even if the guy you’re with looks like Woody Allen’s older brother, he’s the love of your life and a non-stop sex machine. And so are you. (Even if your dicks are going nowhere, but more on that later.)

And since it kills your appetite, meth’s great if you wanna lose those stubborn five pounds in two days, what I like to call the Tina Fuck Diet.

So what’s the problem?

If you’re a top, your dick may feel like you could fuck half the humpy guys in your town, but when you look down at it, it’s the size of your thumb. (And neither youth nor 300 mgs. of Viagra will make any difference.)

If you’re a bottom, your hole is insatiable and when you’ve run out of men, that plunger in the bathroom starts looking real interesting.

Because your dick feels so great, you keep pulling on it for hours, even days, til it’s raw. Cumming is almost impossible.

Despite all this talk of an epidemic, the shit is hard to get because most of the dealers and middlemen run things like amateur hour, not as a business. And I’m not even talking about getting arrested and fucking up your life, especially if you’re a professional and licensed. It’s no surprise that meth-related arrests are up here in South Florida, a hotbed of meth use.

Hundreds of dollars go up in smoke, up your nose or in your arm for one night of fun.

There’s no such thing as quality control. Some stuff sucks, other stuff smoked feels like you’re slamming. (And the difference between smoking it and shooting up with it is like the difference between kindergarten and graduate school.)

You are totally dehydrated for days, drink water non-stop, can’t take a shit, and your urine smells like a garbage dump.

You are wired for days and can’t sleep unless your buddy slips you some Xanax (yep, one drug leads to another). So what else is there to do at 4 a.m. in the morning when you realize after playing with it for two hours, your super sensitive cock ain’t gonna do anything, but vacuum your place twice, right? Or do a five hour work-out at the gym – if a heart attack doesn’t get you.

Til the shit wears off, you become increasingly paranoid. Either everyone’s looking at you because you’re the hottest motherfucker in the room. Or everyone’s looking at you because they know you’re tweaking.

Unlike alcohol which is a dead giveaway, you can control your outward appearance and behavior if you put your mind to it. Like slowing down on the smack speed talk or your driving on a local street.

And, of course, if you can’t deal with the inevitable crashes, hey, you just do some more. Chances are in six months your job’s gone, your apartment’s history, your dog is in the shelter, your teeth are getting loose because of lack of saliva, you look like shit, and you’re searching out a five hundred dollar a month room in some flophouse. I know of at least half a dozen guys who ended up this way if you think I’m bullshitting you. One beauty I knew fell asleep at the wheel after two weeks of non-stop partying and went into a canal. Dead of drowning at 42.

But hey, that’s the price for feeling good, REAL good, right buddy?

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