Crack Cocaine

There’s been a lot of talk in recent years by pseudo-scientific persons and their chosen news outlets about the supposed negative effects of crack cocaine on the general health of its users. Let me tell you right now, the people who have been making these claims are — so to speak — on crack.
Let me relate what I feel is a rather revealing anecdote. I was sixteen and friendless, my self-esteem at an all-time low. My chances of getting a girl to look twice at me — much less get into a bed with me and let me put my penis into her, as was my goal at that time — were slim to none. And: my vision was poor, requiring me to wear corrective lenses. All in all, I felt that, like Job, I had been singled out by the Lord for some especially sadistic breed of test. Then I discovered crack cocaine, and I didn’t care about those things anymore. Were it not for criznack (or ‘crizzle-snack’, as I sometimes call it, affectionately), I seriously might not be here today, doing all this stuff, working these miracles with la gente.
What I love about doing crack, though, is that it almost gives me special powers. This one time, high as a goddamn space shuttle, and better armed, I was talking to this guy at a party. And he was like, “Man, I’ve been watching South Park since it first came on.” And, my eyes all bugged out like a goddamn preacher possessed by the Holy Spirit, I just looked at him for what was probably an uncomfortably long time. I was reading his mind. “Bullshit!” I whispered. He cocked his head to the side. “Bullshit, you, you…,” my third eye wandered like a divining rod across his very MIND, “you have never seen South Park. Isn’t that right.” I had looked into his very mind and perceived his entire consciousness, the whole damn thing, and there was no South Park there. “No, I’ve seen every episode,” he tried to tell me, but I was through with him, so I shot him right in his face, something I would never have thought to do had I not been so high that my brain was skipping across sanity like a flat stone side-armed over a whisper-still lake, like a small ejected passenger against the rubber-black tarmac, like chalk pushed at the wrong angle across a blackboard.