Saturday, March 3, 2007

Change - Part 2

Before I continue I should note that I grew up in Los Angeles, but had relocated to the east coast for this job.

My 27th birthday was two days away. I spoke with my attorney, who told me (off the record) that I should probably just get away from the drugs and the girl, and come back to deal with the backlash when I have my life in order. It was sound advice. So I decided to have one last celebration with my friends on my birthday and just move back to Los Angeles to get away from the nonsense.

The day before my birthday there's a knock at my door. It was the police. The drugs and gun were still in my apartment, but I had hidden it away.

Much to my surprise, I was only served with a restraining order, and not a warrant. They said the restraining order noted that I had a hand gun in the house and that it was to be confiscated until the court date. I denied the existance of such a gun and claimed the allegation was just made in spite. I even offered for the officers to look around the apartment. They declined and said it wasn't necessary. I asked them if that was it, because i'd heard about them pressing charges as well. The officers said that those usually take a few days longer, as restraining orders are approved and served immediately for safety concerns - and if such charges had been filed, I would not receive those papers until a couple days later.

The next morning, on my birthday, I called the police station to ask about my situation. Sure enough, there were two warrants out in my name - Second Degree Tresspassing, and Destruction of Private Property.

I hung up the phone and laughed. Second Degree Tresspassing, how petty.

So we're out on my birthday and I meet this attractive young girl. She's 19 and has a smoking body. More interestingly, she's paying me absolutely no attention and is just there as a high school friend of one of my buddies. A girl who paid me no attention, on my fucking birthday? I think not. I turned up the charm, pointing out her flaws and ignoring her back. Key techniques I learned in grade school that work to this day.

One of the girls shows up at the bar we're having my birthday celebration at (which we knew was a possibility since they knew I hung out there regularly) so we immediately kick in Plan B and I high tail it out of there. We reconvene at a friends house to continue the celebration.

We buy ourselves a couple 8 balls of coke, and continue to party up the night. The group goes out to get some juice and more coke as we'd run out by now, and the hottie and I remain in the house to finish the few remaining lines.

"I'll let you see my tits if I can do half of your last line." she says.
"I've seen plenty of tits before, you gotta do better than that." I don't miss a beat.

So she's straddled on my lap and I'm sucking on her nipples as the others finally get back to the house. They smile and nod in approval and make way to the back bedroom as she and I continue on the couch in the living room. I wave hello from underneath her.

Skip ahead to seven in the morning when she and I are back at my place with a brand new 8 ball in hand. We're having deep conversations as one usually does when high on coke, when suddenly this chick starts fucking shaking and drooling, and falls off her chair. She's having a motherfucking seizure on my dining room floor and now I have a warrant out in my name, and an OD'd chick on my hands.

I call up my friend Emily and tell her to get her ass over to my place immediately, as we're gonna bury this bitch if we have to.

I pick the girl up and carry her to my bed as she begins to come to, not remembering what just happened. I tell her and she shrugs and wants to do another line - not on my watch, babe.

Anyway, enough about her.

She gets better and drives home, and I head out to my local watering hole for the night. I've already decided that I'm going to bang every chick I hadn't yet before moving back, and high on the list was this cute bartender that worked there. She agrees to come over to my place.

We get there and I break out the coke when she looks at me for a moment and pauses.

"What's up?" I ask.
"Promise not to freak out?" She asks back.
"Spit it out, princess." I speed up the pace.

She pulls out a pack of brand new syringes and says that she does her heroine and coke that way, and if I'd mind.

I'm a long fucking way from Kansas for someone who went to private school and had never done hard drugs before in his life. So I do what any reasonable person who just had a chick OD in his apartment the night before would do: I say of course she can, and would she mind if I tried it too.

She hands me half the pack of fresh syringes so that we make sure not to share, and I cross the point of no return. If on a scale of 1 to 10 snorting coke was a 9, then this was an exquisite 100. I had felt nothing like it before, and had it killed me then and there, I would have died a happy man.

We do this all night and have pretty remarkable sex, and I send her on her way when the drugs run out. She asks if I wanted to keep going and try some heroine, but I somehow manage to grip onto the last tiny bit of sanity I have left and decline.

I walk her out and bid her farewell, and I get in my car to go get myself a hotel room. I know the cops are coming any minute now, and I have to sleep. Plus, I have a new habit that I'm just itching to do more of.

I crash for about 10 hours, and when I wake up I decide to call the young girl from my birthday to see how she's doing. She's well and invites me over to her place to watch a movie. I take a short break from the chaos and drugs and tell her I'd come over only if no drugs were involved. She agreed and said she wasn't interested in doing any at that time anyway. We watch a movie and have a pleasant time together.

This girl had an overdose in my apartment the first night I met her, and I'm leaving town in a week. The only reasonable thing to do is start up a relationship with her. But more on this later, right now I have more self-destructing to do.

I go pick up a ton more coke and a bunch of new syringes and head back to my hotel room. What was supposed to be a couple days in hiding to get myself in order to leave town turns out to be eight straight days of binging to the point of barely being able to move my arms because they're so sore and bloody. I can barely see straight anymore.

I'm slowly killing myself.

I go to get more money and score some more coke, when the ATM machine spits out my receipt. I have $6,000 left to my name.

I'm going to be broke and alone soon, with no place to live and no job. This was an intense realization.

I call my parents back in Los Angeles, in tears. I tell them whats going on. Everything. I don't even know what they'll say or how they'll react, I just know I need to tell them. They're both very old country, and since I last saw them, I've gotten my left arm entirely tattoo'd, pierced my ears, and now I have an increasingly bad drug habit. I tell them that if they'll have me, I'd like to come home and get my life in order.

They start crying too.

Much to surprise, my hard-ass father whom I would have never expected this from, tells me that I'm his only child and that he loves me - I'm welcome in his house any time. Pack your shit and come home, son - you need your family right now he tells me.

I throw out the drugs, dispose of the gun, and pack up all my essentials into my car in four hours time - leaving behind all my furniture in the apartment I would never give notice to. I make one final stop at the young girls house to kiss her goodbye, and to drop off my dog so she can watch over him as I drive across the country.

But this is not quite rock bottom enough for me.

Continue to Part 3

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