Kind of A Waste of Time

Cocaine

Citation: Kilo Greenz. "Kind of A Waste of Time: An Experience with Cocaine (exp49482)". Erowid.org . Mar 11, 2007. erowid.org/exp/49482

DOSE:

T+ 0:00 2 lines insufflated Cocaine (powder / crystals) T+ 0:45 2 lines insufflated Cocaine (powder / crystals)

BODY WEIGHT: 210 lb

So I was wondering about all the hype surrounding how great coke is. So, I tried it, and I am still wondering. Here's how it happened, what happened, and why I am of the opinion that the drug cocaine is not really a huge deal, or one that I would have any personal need to do again. I tried cocaine for the first and only time one night several months ago. My buddy Alfie II, the purveyor of the coke breezed into a small party that I was having, all high, and acting like a Psychotron from Hell.Alfie II is in the practice of showing up at these gatherings geeked, slowed, zapped, freaked, or otherwise gacked to the gills on some substance or the other. Let me explain that Alfie II is one of those dudes who is always turned onto something new, a different drug, or a different way to do a drug that would like, supposedly really amp up his experience, or otherwise make a given drug more 'worthwhile' to him. And he is really, and I mean REALLY into the band Slayer.Let me explain some other shit about my friend Alfie II. This guy is a walking drug encyclopedia, and has at least 'been around the block' or claims to have 'tangled with' just about every illicit substance that anyone can think of. Anyone who is involved in any incarnation of 'The Drug Culture' knows at least one person who is 'that guy'.What I mean is this: When someone is talking about a drug or some substance, Alfie II will say some shit like, 'Oh, you mean 'GXT-norhypnon-nannothol-9'?' (and maybe only one person out of 100 has even heard of such a substance, much less its scientific moniker). Then, of course, Alfie II will craft some tale of his own personal experience which he assumes is, and treats as THE definitive, final word on the merits, effects, and relative coolness of whichever drug he happens to be frothing off about.Invariably, when my stoner buddies and I have some hypothetical drug- related quandary, such as, for instance, what table wine would go the best with a big ole' rail of smack, we usually seek counsel with 'The Professor', Alfie II.Anyway, here's the story. It's some Friday night in January 2005, and, like I said its a small party at my apartment. I'm drunk off of some cheap fortified wine, Brand Name 'Night Train' (made famous by the Guns 'n' Roses tune, 'Night Train'), and I have become a bit boisterous, since the weed that I had smoked a few hours earlier has sort of transitioned its way out of me. I'm trying to wail out the guitar solo from Pantera's 'Cemetary Gates' on my brand new B.C. Rich guitar, and my afforementioned buddy Alfie II bursts into my apartment.He is immeidatley in my face, spewing out some insane shit about how pumped and psyched he is. 'Yeah. Yeah.' I say, figuring he has just smoked some kind of bullshit herb like 'Black Orchid of Death' or some shit. He is always purchasing that kind of ragweed crap off of the internet, and usually all the stuff does is stink up the place.Alfie II, seeing that I am brushing him off in favor of my new B.C. Rich guitar, reaches in the pocket of his black Slayer jacket, and pulls out a bag conaining some white lumps which sort of resemble those white, powdery, doughball cookies that people make around Christmas time, only smaller, like dime-sized.I say the first thing comes to mind, 'Whoa. Nice cookies!' I give Alfie II a knowing wink and a nod, because I am now aware that he has procured some cocaine, and is likely going to share the wealth with Ole' Kilo Greenz (me).Alfie II says something like, 'Dude, I'm so gacked out right now. I scored this shit kind of by accident!' Turns out that a dealer couldn't come through with the X that he promised Alfie II, and instead sold him some coke.So of course, the first thing that I do is set the B.C. Rich guitar on my coffee table, and motion for Alfie II to crush up one of those glorious nugs of cocaine onto the black pick guard of the guitar. I think I said something like 'Fuckin' cut it up here, dude.' I thought it very rock and roll and apros pos to snort my first ever hit of Vitamin C off of my new guitar, you know, so as to christen it, or whatever. Alfie diced up the coke on my new Axe, using an exacto knife, and telling me that his choice of cocaine cutlery would produce for me 'the Exact-O correct-O amount'. Alfie II is always saying inane, hilarious shit like that. I was pretty pumped to try the coke, because I had always wanted to give that shit a whirl, but I never felt like spending the big money, right?So, as I'm rolling up a One dollar bill. I know, sort of cheesy, right? But hey, Ole' Kilo Greenz ain't a wealthy man, okay? Alfie II is lining up rails of powder with the exacto knife, and launching into some homespun dossier on how to snort the coke, and what I should expect, saying things like, 'It's lightning, dude, and it will wake you from your endless sleep!' and, 'use a forward sweeping motion, dude, and inhale in rhythmic blasts', and then, 'Dude, are you ready to rage like the Ace of Spades?' None of this stuff meant a lot to me, because I was really just interested in sticking my fucking nose in it and getting freaked out on coke. I was like, 'Spare me the lecture, asshole. I'm going to commence coking.'Others at the party were gathering around the table, wondering what was going on. Someone said, 'Dude, they're fucking snorting coke off of that guitar!' And we DID snort fucking coke off of that guitar, through a fucking rolled up One Dollar Bill, and I have the fucking polaroids that someone took while we were fucking snorting it to prove it.The coke burned some, but not as much as some other drugs I have snorted have, but my nose went sort of numb in a few seconds, as did my throat. I could not feel either very much after about thirty seconds. In about a minute and a half, as Alfie was administering a 'gummie-numbie' to some sexy chick named Chloe, and lining up rails coke for more people, (Again, on my new guitar), the Gack started to kick into gear, and I was getting high on cocaine for my first time. The first thing that hits me was 'This is really no big deal' and then, 'So now I will probably spend a lot of time sucking cock to get more coke.'I kept waiting for the high to really peak out, and I guess it did, after about eight to ten minutes. But it wasn't what I had expected. I had always been led to believe, possibly by my own grandiose, romanticized take on the drug culture's affinity towards cocaine, that a coke high, especially the first one you have is like a human orgasm times fifty. This was not the case. I would compare it to the excitement that comes from seeing a sexy chick after having drunk 8-10 cups of coffee. But that analogy is flawed, so let me explain it this way. Imagine having a somewhat intense adrenaline flutter that lasts like twenty five minutes.I was just really exited, about all kinds of shit all at once. I feel pretty good, and I think, 'Boy.Fromnowon,thisishowIcouldfeel,likeallthetime.' And there is really no punctuation between thoughts. My brain was on a supertrain of automatic shuffle, and it all seems to make more sense than the rest of my muddled, mundane life's thoughts previous to my using coke ever did. This is because, thanks to Alfie II I have become a hardwired, coke-fueled machine of destruction.But even when I'm high on the shit, I still maintain the reality that I can only feel this way if I do more of the shit. And I know deep down that I really should not do more coke, even though I have already decided I am going to no matter who I have to shoot, burn, or rape to do so. I'm exaggerating, but this is the reality of instant addiction, which is only cool if you aspire to become an addled freak, which I'm relatively sure no one who has ever done coke intends to have happen.For me, having an elevated sense of alertness, a feeling of speeding, and a jittery pulsing feeling in my jaw and chest just didn't measure up to my preconcieved notions of a sweetly sadistic all-encompasing rush of passion and bliss that I had anticipated. Maybe Hollywood's glamorization of coke has given me an inappropriately sexual take on what a coke high is supposed to be, I don't know.Anyway, I found the high to be a cold, calculated, vaccum of thought-organization. Kind of like I was The Terminator for a half an hour, which is cool, but not what I (hadn't) paid for.I didn't like the tight feeling in my chest, and I kept wondering, 'What if I have a heart murmur or something. I don't want to blow a head gasket; that would be a real bummer, you know, like, being dead all of the sudden.' After a few minutes, like ten or so after the initial 'rush', that feeling went away, and so did the feeling that I was an Austrian killing machine who wears black leather coats and sunglasses sometimes.Instead, as the coke began to wear off, I just started feeling bummed, hollowed out, and agitated. I told some chick that I have known for years that she was chubby for absolutely no reason, simply because she was wearing a blouse that I found unattractive and plain. I said some other shit to other people that probably made me look like an ass on a highhorse, and started smoking tons of cigarettes to kind of amend the shitty feelings I was having. To myself, I thought, 'Cocaine sucks.' Then, 'I'll do some more.'I told Alfie, who was Mega-Chatting with some chicks, seeming to enjoy the effects of the overrated white powder more than I was, that I was no longer The Terminator, and he looked at me, puzzled. After a moment, he understood me, and said, 'Oh, well you'll be needing more of this then.' and drew out some more lines of coke on my the pick guard of my new guitar. At this point, people were lining up to do hits of the magical powder, Alfie II is a very generous person, when he has a lot of whatever, and the quality of the coke was drawing rave reviews from the kids. Apparently, I was the only one who wasn't 'getting it'.I snorted some more of the white powder, a little more than the first time. Was I already exhibiting signs of tolerance? God I hoped not. And I was 'off to the races'. But it was all the same as before. More speeding, more palpitations, more racing, falsely self-assured personal revelations, and more bitteness, irritability, and craving afterwards. I thought 'I hate cocaine.' and then 'I'll not do it anymore'. And that was that.I suppose it's easier for someone who doesn't like the feeling of angina or animalistic fight or flight response to lay off of this drug, but for some, it's not that easy. I seldom see Alfie II these days, for he spends most of his time trying to perfect new ways of freebasing cocaine. He also has turned bi-sexual (very un-Slayer if you ask me; not that I judge him), which I think is a choice he has made based on the availability of the drug cocaine, and what he thinks he needs to do make sure that he always has some of it.I personally like pot, shrooms, and acid, because, of course, Psychedelics offer a variety of assorted freak outs and reality bending experiences. As I always say, 'No two acid trips are quite the same.' But with coke, I figured I would always get the same thing, this clinical, frigid, aniseptic rush, that is like the first few whiffs of a squeaky clean kitchen after some anal retentive asshole has doused the floor with pine-sol. 'Oh. That's refreshingly nice,' you think, enjoying a germ free, kitchen clean buzz. But I think that being a full-time coke head, all the time, would get really boring. It would be very linear, squared away, and like viewing the world through a 25X magnifying lens. I don't need to be that sharp, all the time.After all, that's why I have chosen to be a weed-head, and a sloppy drunk, because if at any point, I feel like I'm 'on top of my game', that's just a personal sign that I need to smoke some more pot, or pour another fat finger of whiskey into a highball. Put simply, coke just doesn't jive my hive. I don't know why, but after using coke, I have come to one inexplicable conclusion about cokeheads. Most of these people are probably pretty good at math. Well, I fucking hate math.Kilo Greenz, Out!