6:34 pm
I adjust the collar around my neck as I gently ruffle out the dress shirt I've selected for tonight's outing. I gaze back at my figure in the mirror, pushing over the few strands of hair that overlap down onto the left side of my forehead. Attempting to look my best, knowing that I'll be damn well shitfaced by the end of the night, I grab my jacket and leave the dorm room.
On the way out, I check to see if my lighter has any fluid left in it, which it does not. I'll need to make getting a new one a priority tonight, as I throw the old one out. I'm pretty much the heaviest partier on campus, and have a horrible reputation with the staff and teachers of the school. Let's just say I didn't come to university to get a degree.
Cutting through the park, giddy with the idea of all the recreational substances that I'll be ingesting into my system tonight, I wouldn't mind a quick cigarette to loosen me up (since I never buy a full pack and just bum them off people). Not trying to sound cocky, but I'm a slick talker with the ladies after I've got my drink on and caught a nice buzz. Everything's better with a little alcohol in my belly and nicotine in my veins.
. . . . .
7:01 pm
By the time I get to my first party stop of the night—a frat held by a group of jocks on the school football team—I can already tell this will be my kind of place. Upon entering, I'm greeted by others, as I'm always a familiar face in these environments. Right away, I accept a drink from two guys handing me a red cup and some cider. I don't even have to ask what's in it, as long as there's alcohol involved.
I take a few swigs, bobbing my head to the rhythm of the music playing over the portable speaker. As I said, I'm already eyeing up a few of the females, noticing two girls in the kitchen already getting freaky with one another.
I sip my drink as I slowly make my way out onto the porch. There, I see a presumed student around my age puffing on a cigarette, him too sipping a drink. That reminds me that I'm still craving some tobacco.
So, being the junkie I am, already grabbing a second alcoholic beverage, I approach and ask if he can bum me a smoke. He shakes his head apologetically, giving me the cliche line that he only has one left. As a smoker, this is hardly ever true, but there's not much you can do once they make their decision. Accepting his decline, I make my way back into the party, continuing to ingest more alcohol in my system.
Darn, I think to myself.
. . . . .
8:13 pm
After spending a good hour at the first frat, now feeling nice and buzzed and ready to move on with my night, I tell my homies that I'm about to bounce. They dab me up and say goodbye, before I'm about to quickly chill with some of my closest friends and drop a tab of acid or two. My buddy is a heavy psych guy, and loves to experiment with mind-altering substances.
On the walk there, considering I'm already feeling somewhat tipsy, I notice an elderly woman smoking a cigarette at the bus stop. This is when I really love a dart—after I've got a nice alcohol buzz going. Cutting across the street quickly, I ask if she can bum me one. Looking promising, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of Belmonts with a rather sincere look.
But just as I'm about to grab one from her, she proceeds to tell me that she needs an extra dollar for the bus. Feeling deflated, I realize quickly that I don't have any money on me—and that with my partying reputation across the campus, I've for the most part just always had people give me alcohol and drugs for free. But she makes it clear that she wants a dollar in return for the bus.
So sadly, I carry on my way to the next party, feeling dejected that I still haven't gotten my cigarette. Regardless, I'm ready to continue this chaotic night.
. . . . .
8:47 pm
The sun is just going down at this point—the true essence of the party life. I enter my closer buddy's house, and they're already tripping and getting weird with one another. I don't have a whole lot of time here until I have to be at the next party, so we talk it up for about forty-five minutes while the LSD gradually kicks in, on top of the alcohol I've been sipping gradually already tonight. Man...a cigarette would be even better right now. Too bad this particular group of friends doesn't smoke, or at least one of them did, but she quit a while back. I would kill for one right now.
As I start to see the walls and ceiling morph around me slightly, considering I didn't take too large of a dose, I'm already heading off again and to an underground concert held by an up-and-coming band of the university. But before I go, I ask my buddy if I can borrow a dollar in case I spot someone again with a cigarette, and he gives in. I'm sure there will be people smoking to the sounds of the band playing, along with more alcohol and drugs for me to consume.
All right.
Time to head to the concert.
. . . . .
9:57 pm
God, music is incredible when you're tripping. The energy of the underground band is magnificent. Everyone is laughing, talking, socializing, and most importantly fucked up and intoxicated. But one problem—no one is smoking cigarettes. I look all around, making eye contact with dozens of other rebellious college students, but can't seem to find one. Feeling somewhat annoyed, I'm offered some mushrooms to increase the psych effects, and obviously I don't turn them down. I take a handful, not even measuring out an approximate dosage, and begin downing them with another can of beer and chewing their awful, dirt-like taste.
Ugh...I need a cigarette!
. . . . .
11:34 am
Considering I'm off the acid, shrooms, and pretty much drunk at this point, time has gone by extremely slowly. I see in a blurry manner that it's approaching midnight, yet my night is only beginning. I have at least four more parties to go to, and know that either way, I'll never be able to sleep with all these mixtures of drugs in my system.
Once again saying goodbye to the group of people at the underground band, I'm off to do some of the harder drugs tonight at my dealer's house. Of course, on the way out of the band, I check to see if there's anyone smoking a cigarette, but once again I'm unsuccessful.
. . . . .
12:12 am
I'm now forced to take the subway train to meet my plug, as I have a monthly pass for all local city transit. I have a difficult time keeping my eyes open as I hold onto the railing above to balance my intoxicated being out. People can obviously tell that I'm messed up on something—or several things, should we say—but it doesn't phase me. I'm always like this.
When I get off the subway, I see a man waiting for the train with his headphones plugged in, smoking a cigarette.
Finally, I think to myself.
I ask if I can buy one off him with the dollar my buddy lent me, and he says why not.
But as I reach into my pocket, I feel nothing but my pant leg. Hoping I misplaced it, I check the other pocket, but again it's nowhere to be found. You've got to be kidding me. I must have lost it during some time on the subway train, which has already departed and taken off. Just like the elderly lady at the bus stop, he goes on to explain that he only sells them for a dollar, and that they aren't free. Kicking myself mentally, knowing I fair well had a chance, I bite my tongue and leave the man alone.
What a joke this is.
. . . . .
12:41 am
I knock on the run-down door of the apartment my dealer lives in. As I made clear earlier, this will be the sketchiest run of the night, and I usually don't hang out very long in this kind of environment. I just do my shit and say goodbye, as I'm basically entering a borderline trap house. The plug opens the door and greets me. I take a quick look around, making sure I'm not seen by any prying eyes, and discreetly enter his place.
The plug returns shortly with some pills and powder to sprinkle up my nose later when I get to the club. I wash the meds down right away with another sip of crafted beer.
But before I leave, I ask if either of the guys on the couch has a cigarette. The first guy shakes his head no, and the other goes on to explain that he has to make a gas station run and pick them up. Yet once again, I'm denied my cigarette.
. . . . .
2:07 am
The ride back on the subway train was just brutal. As I felt the pills kick in, I nearly missed my stop twice, both times almost getting off at the wrong station.
I now feel my entire body tingling and it's almost erotic, as I now enter and sway my body with female dancers at the club. In fact, the extreme euphoric sedation is a little overwhelming, so I think it's time I bust out that bag of powder and balance myself out.
After blowing a few lines I bought off my dealer earlier, I flush the toilet to make my actions less suspicious, exiting the bathroom stall of the club. I feel the powder drip down the back of my throat as my whole face goes numb, when I can smell the odour of cigarettes on a man taking a leak in the urinal. After he zips his fly up and turns to face me, I promisingly ask if I can have a cigarette. Unfortunately, yet expected, he tells me that he only has rolling papers, along with a bag of tobacco.
God, I disappointingly think to myself. I'm too fucked up to roll right now...I just need a CIGARETTE!
Literally stumbling out of the bathroom, unsuccessful for the dozenth time, I head back to the female dancers. The powder always makes my testosterone levels rise and intrigues the desire to get intimate with the opposite sex. There's also a few weed joints being passed around, as cannabis is now legal in clubs here. I take a few puffs when I'm offered a hit, but only a couple, because weed can sometimes give me anxiety if I smoke too much.
But what I REALLY want to smoke right now is a damn cigarette!
. . . . .
5:13 am
I have my head resting down on the counter of a local twenty-four-hour bar, the light of the early morning just barely starting to peek through the window. How I haven't passed out yet is beyond me. The entire restaurant is empty, with the exception of myself and the bartender, who has seen me here plenty of times before. She even offers me a free drink or two, since last I granted a rather hefty tip. Barely able to even keep my eyes open at this point, I once again accept.
When she goes to the washroom, I pull out a small baggie of ketamine that I copped back at the club. I toss it into my Baileys Irish Cream and stir it around with a straw, letting it dissolve in with the last few remains of alcohol and finish it off. Baileys tastes so good, man. It reminds me of a nice, warm coffee first thing in the morning.
When the bartender comes back, I ask if she smokes cigarettes.
She tells me no, and how that's bad for you
. . . . .
6:21 am
I'm about to give up this endless search for a cigarette, as I flounder around the early morning streets like a soulless zombie nodding out from The Walking Dead. The sun is up now, as I walk by another park, where there are always elder seniors smoking. But I guess it's too damn early in the morning, because it's a ghost town and no smokers around.
All I can do at this point is start making my way gradually back to the dorm, as I'm ready to sleep and sleep until later tonight, where I'll most likely repeat this vicious lifestyle of extreme partying.
I'm hallucinating so hard at this point, I actually thought for a second that I saw a shopping cart full of cigarettes, just waiting there in front of me with my name written in bold font on it.
Ah...so close.
. . . . .
7:19 am
Ah, yes. Here comes the part where I hurl my guts onto the sidewalk.
After throwing everything up, I lay there for a good twenty minutes on the hard, crisp pavement, just dreaming of that one, special cigarette.
. . . . .
8:29 am
OH...MY...GOD! I actually got my hands on a cigarette! A woman OFFERED me one, claiming that I didn't look too swell and to take care of myself! HOLY FUCK!
. . . . .
8:51 am
And so there it is—my dorm. Somehow, someway, I actually managed to make it home. There are students already up and walking to classes, as once again I collapse on the ground with my cigarette still in hand. I literally crawl up the stairs of my dorm like that scene of Leonardo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street, trying to get home after taking an excessive dosage of Quaaludes in his white, fancy car.
Finally! I nudge my body up against a wall, falling asleep on the porch with a drool practically trailing down my chin I'm nodding out so hard. I place the cigarette filter in between my lips, feeling as if I just accomplished a marathon that I dedicated months and months of training to my life. What an incredible accomplishment.
But just as I go to spark that lovely, longing cigarette, I feel a sense of utter disappointment.
Jesus Christ, I think to myself, realizing I failed to remember the single most absolutely important item on my to-do list tonight.
I forgot my lighter.