I used to love cocaine but now I love sudoku

This is the stupidest thing I have ever wrote in my life, and hopefully it will stay that way. But these stupid words are in my brain and the only way they will go away is by subjecting random strangers on the internet who may or may not even read this shit.

Anyways…….it’s called:

So what do YOU like to do on the train??

Obviously a) find a seat, but that’s not always possible.

I like to listen to my NoFx Pandora station on my phone until Pandora realizes that I’m underground. Then I listen to either Marilyn Manson’s “Antichrist Superstar” or Ghostface Killah’s “Marvel” on repeat. I like these songs because a) they kick ass, b) they are the only songs on my phone that I am not completely sick of and finally c) they make me feel sexual and violent. Which is always a good way to feel on the train, for many reasons. Someone tries to sexually assault you? You are fucking ready to assault that piece of shit right back and rip off his dick. You see a hot guy? Hey Papi want a mid-commute lap dance?? Someone pushes you/touches your bag/does anything to piss you off? Push em right back and then jerk off to it later. You see where I’m going with this.

Oh I also like to play Bejewelled on my phone until the sparkly jewels start giving me acid flashbacks and then I play Fruit Ninja.

Before I had an Iphone I would read a book or some shit but who needs books when you have technology??

This has been my routine for slightly over month, ever since my boyfriend broke up with me. He hated when I listened to NoFx. He hated all of my music actually. He only liked shitty rap which I am all for but not all the fucking time. I did make him listen to David Allan Coe the first night he ever came over so you can’t say he didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

You wanna know what you DON’T listen to after a break up? or really ever for that matter: ADELE. I swear to god every time that song comes on at the bar I work at late at night when people are shit faced I’m terrified all the customers are going to start smashing glasses and slashing their wrists before I can close out their tabs.

So what is the moral of the story? That I’m a fucking idiot and I just got coconut oil all over the keyboard of my 1500 dollar laptop.

If you have any suggestions of better ways for me to spend my time on the train please let me know. 

Oh and lastly I cry because I’m too poor to afford a cab. THE END!!!!

I used to not sleep during the weekend.

I don’t know why only the weekends, because it’s not like I had a job or school to attend during the week. 

But on the weekends I stayed awake. 

This led to the inevitable crash come Sunday evening when my body couldn’t take it anymore. Once I slept for 20 hours straight after taking xanax, snorting coke and smoking crack for two days straight. That was my record.

I also went through a period of time when I didn’t drink alcohol. Drugs only.

My logic at the time was that all my major fuck ups were when I was blacked out drunk, but on drugs I was fine. Due to the constant array of different antidepressants flowing through my system, a terrifying blackout followed by a morning of panic and recounts of my bizarre behavior was more common than a good buzz after a good old fashioned binge drinking session.  

Well I lied, I would drink, but I had a three beer rule.

So now that you know all that fascinating information let me tell you a fun little story.

Carrie and I had spent the weekend (awake) on adderall, ecstasy and whatever other random drugs or chemicals the x was cut with. When the weekend was winding down we decided to take some xanax and drink a few beers. 

Then I decided I was going to get drunk! Why not? It always seemed to end up so well for me all the other times.

At this point Carrie said she was crashing and she was gonna go home and go to sleep. What she really did was disappear for another few days with Jozz’s truck (more on him later, one of the greatest and most influential people to be a part of my life), scare the shit out of us and smoke crack. 

That left me with her friends in Hobe Sound, about a 20 minute or so drive from my mom’s house in Jupiter. 

I don’t know if you know this, and unless you are/were a basehead like me you probably don’t, but after staying awake for days on end one’s drug and alcohol tolerance becomes quite sensitive. 

I lost track at around 8 beers and one of Carrie’s friend volunteered to drive me home. Problem was that by the time we made it to Jupiter I was so fucked up I forgot where I lived. Yeah. I forgot how to get to my fucking house. I honestly had no idea. 

So we drove back to Hobe Sound and I passed out in his truck while he drank in some shit hole called Scooters. 

When I woke up, I proceeded to wander around the ghetto of Hobe Sound while calling my sister to come pick me up. It was hard for me to give her directions to where I was because I was in a semi-blacked out state and not making much sense.

Eventually she found me stumbling around crack town and at this point I was regaining basic motor skills such as verbal communication in her passenger seat. On the ride home I keep asking her if mom knew where I was and if I’m in trouble and if she knows if I’m all fucked up on drugs, etc. etc. and she keeps telling me to just shut the fuck up and this continues until we arrive home, when I turn around and look into the backseat.

“Oh. Hi Mom.”

She was there the whole fucking time. 

My boobs are a very prominent feature. Let’s face it, they’re fucking huge. At my new job, they are very much on display. My coworkers joke about it being a German hooters. I am St. Pauly’s Girl.

Opening night was crazy and there were a lot of people that wanted to touch my tits. Now, if any guy had even tried to touch them, I would have attempted to break his hand and testicles, then called over a bouncer to throw him over the balcony.

But the drunken women I let touch them. They are harmless. They aren’t even into girls, just curious of these massive glands attached to me that they will never know of.

This one married, mid-thirties woman kind of pet them like they were a cat. Other times she just placed her hands flat against the exposed top of my tits. 

She told me not to let just anybody touch my boobs. I told her only chicks can. She said “No, I mean not just anybody. I’m married!”

I said “Okay, fine, only married chicks can touch my boobs.”

This other girl, who was probably about my age or younger touched one tit with just the tip of her index finger, kind of like a poke without the retreat.

It reminded me of a particularly nauseating time in my cocaine days.

My friend “Christy” (remember her??) had left me alone with some random dude in the woods after an extensive drug binge.

He kept showing me all this crack and cocaine he had, but he wasn’t going to give me any, i.e. I had to put out in some way shape or form if I wanted to partake in any of them. As much as I wanted the drugs, I wasn’t having it.

Unbeknownst to my naive ass, Christy was off with our friend Howard obliging to the sucking and fucking required to obtain these drugs.

He kept begging me and begging me and I kept refusing. 

Finally he pulled out his big, black cock and begged me to “just touch it”. 

So I did. I touched it with the tip of my pointed index finger.

“Not like that!” It was like his whole world deflated.

“What? That is not a legitimate way to touch a penis? That’s how I normally do it.” I taunted. “I am sixteen, ya know. How the fuck should I know how to touch a dick?”

He put away his now sad, big, black penis, zipped up his pants and left in defeat, leaving my cracked out ass alone in the woods.

I highly doubt this gorgeous Upper East Side princess in a Midtown bar was thinking the same thing as she tentatively touched another girl’s boob for the first time with her index finger.

Once I drove a Cadillac Escalade on about 17 Ambien

When I was 17 I worked at a restaurant as a host/busser. 

Remember when I went there on mescaline? No? Go back and fucking read it!

Anyway, before all that one night I met these two Kentucky boys and they asked if I wanted to come back to snowbird Grammy’s mansion and smoke some ganga. 

Being born and raised in Palm Beach County, I’ve seen some pretty impressive palaces of disgusting wealth. But this one was fuckin up there. And this was just the house Grammy frequented in the winter. And I’m guessing only for a couple weeks at a time. The rest was probably spent on her private island. That rich.

The were good ol Southern Gentleman from lumber money.

Bout a week later, for some intelligent reason, I decided to take about 17 Ambien.

Interestingly enough, I stayed awake all night!

And those rich boys let me drive their Cadillac Escalade! 

Why? I have no fucking idea. 

Actually, now that I look at it, because they were rich as shit and didn’t give a fuck.

But I digress. it was quite the luxurious experience! I was higher then all the cars (like in elevation, but I’m guessing in intoxication as well) and it felt like I was sitting in big, comfortable leather recliner. 

The next day I went over to my mom’s house and slept all day. I told my sister about my night and  “I don’t know why, I can’t stop sleeping”.

“Maybe because you took 17 fucking Ambien you idiot!”

I guess the ambien finally started doing what it was supposed to.

You must be wondering how I afforded all these drugs. Cocaine for one, is expensive as hell.

Well it sure as hell wasn’t from working. Even when I did have a job, my meagerly wages couldn’t afford shit.

My main source of drug income was being a middleman. 

Because of my wholesome reputation, people were always calling me asking if I could hook them up with shit. And for the most part, I could.

Since I was going out of my way to BUY drugs, I wanted to partake in the consumption of them. So I would charge “shipping and handling” and do one or a combination of things.

Straight up tell you that you have to buy me some for me to get you your shit. Take some before giving them to you (this worked for weed or coke). Tell you the prices were actually higher and then use your money to buy my own (this worked best for pills). Or all three. 

I was a really good middleman, but a really shitty drug dealer. 

Why? Cause I got high on my own supply!!! I didn’t work for Tony Montana, and it sure as hell didn’t work for me.

Did you read my blog about getting a DUI? If not, you should go read it. In fact, go read all of my blogs. From the beginning!

Well, if you did read my lil story about my DUI, you would know that my friend named Bre was supposed to drive my car home that night. I called and called, but she was no where to be found. Anyways, I found out later that she had watched me stumble out of the fairgrounds while she silenced my calls and read my texts. She had her heart set on fucking some random that night. And that she did.

What she didn’t do was drive my car that night, and that pissed me off.

I was hanging out with Bre and we somehow ended up at a tattoo artist’s trailer. We ended up there so she could fuck him. He had a GIANT piercing in his dick, which of coarse I had to see, and he said when he went to jail they made him take it out, which made urinating quite difficult, i.e. piss sprayed everywhere.

Well after a serious amount of drinking, more so on Bre’s part then mine, I told her that she should let me tattoo my name on her ass. She was down. Prince Albert boy of coarse had a tattoo “studio” in on of the rooms in his trailer that consisted of a tattoo gun and random pieces of shitty furniture. Prince Albert tried to help me, but it felt like whatever way I was pulling the needle, he was pulling it in the opposite direction, so I don’t know how much he actually helped. Tattooing is very difficult my friends.

Let’s just say it didn’t turn out too well.

 Another idiot let Prince Albert tattoo “FUCK U”  on his shoulder. 

That was the last time I ever hung out with her. That was my little way of getting “revenge”. 

 I saw her at a convenience store a couple years later and made her show the tattoo to my boyfriend. In the middle of the store. 

-katiamichelle: