I got a text this morning from the boys at coffee.
I showed up around eight o'clock and there was a rectangular wrapped box covered with Hanukkah paper sitting in the middle of the table.
They told me to open it and there was a painted box with a smaller package taped inside it.
On the box is written I speak fluent sarcasm? Who me?
Inside the smaller package was a straw, a bindle of unknown substance and a razor blade.
This is sort of funny. Because true confessions time, there was a period of my life, that I am not proud of, where I had a fondness for Peruvian marching powder. And next year and a week will be my fortieth year of sobriety from the substance. I stopped snorting the devil dust on December 27th, 1983 at 2:30 p.m..
I never once took ups, downs, heroin, speed or barbiturates (I was more of a psychedelic guy) but I had a definite hankering for the Andean chit chat flake and it did me no good whatsoever. I drew a line in the sand in 1983 and never once looked back. Didn't like the person I became with coke and didn't miss it a lick. Mostly. I joke that I miss the mannitol more than the chowder itself, kept me real regular.
My coffee friends are older but they have all been around the block and a couple had a sashay or two in the program. I am not proud of my past, I guess it was sort of fun when it went down but I am proud of making it near 40 years without. And counting...