A couple years ago, it was super easy. I lived in a hellish, water-stained, concrete block apartment building that I like to describe as "kinda stabby." As in, people got stabbed there and I got to help clean up the blood. A guy named Jay lived across the hall. His specialty was Vicodin, but he also sold pot. It was crap, and I was lucky if it wasn't laced with brake fluid or something. He would offer to give me "free samples" in exchange for "massages." Because I always told him "no,", or, "hell no," he spread rumors that I had sex with my cat. Tragically, someone set the entire building on fire with careless crack smoking and I lost everything except my cat, my guitar and the clothes on my back. I was also out my dealer—no matter how much of a douche he was.