Suddenly I’m awake. The air rushes into my smoke infested lungs. My eyes, cemented shut by gunk, force open into a blurry vision. A nude body in a goat mask slowly comes into focus, I roll over this corpse like dead-weight. “Phew, it’s a she”. I try to inhale again, but my nose-hole is treating air like the Arian Brotherhood in Soweto. What happened last night? I force on a dressing gown as my forehead tries to escape to different corners of the room, the thick whiskey-scented mucus boiling in my throat. I look in the mirror, gazing into vacant eyes, these horrible hollow eyes where all light and happiness goes to die. I growl as I force feed myself 4 Myprodol, 2 Berocca and a flat brandy and coke. I slump on the couch, a wounded foal; a glimmering picture of human perfection slowly approaching a pickled form. “Cocaine, fuck yeah” I whimper ironically. Those 92 minutes I can remember from last night were awesome, but why are there boobs shaved into my chest hair? The phone rings, it’s a friend. “Dude you will never guess who is playing tonight!” – And the pattern continues. Rinse. Repeat. This is Cape Town, and if its white, powdery and costs more than a ’89 Fiat Uno, then it’s going up someone’s nose.
As a kid cocaine was reserved for vagrants, rock stars and a urine soaked Kate Moss. It was at the pinnacle of the narcotic hierarchy and strictly forbidden by my personal moral code. Now this moral code has taken somewhat of a bruising over the last decade and found itself susceptible to contortion. So when I recently took a step back and gazed over the local wonderland, I realized the devilish underbelly that absorbs the local social scene. Who the fuck have we become? A night out involves half the club’s occupants queuing anxiously outside a bathroom stall. A line for a line, strangely poetic. Good friends, with eyes the size of mag wheels, rattle off inane conversation at 350 words per minute, without really telling you a thing. 4ams, become 5ams. 5ams become 7ams. 7ams become “lets do another line and get kicked out of a putt-putt course”. And then we meander home, our livers like scrotums, sleep for 3 days, only eat for 2, and gather the strength to start again from square one.
I don’t want to be a part of that anymore. But can you avoid it without disappearing into social anonymity and weekends at home knitting pyjamas for your cats? The simple answer is just don’t do it. Fine. Haven’t for a while now. But the alarming rate of use among peers means that the raw element of basic human connection is becoming void by mates using their nostrils as snow ploughs. If the only way we can engage in any fracture of meaningful discussion is if you cant feel the front side of your face, then I guess we aren’t the BFFs of yester year. PS: those 30cm sweat patches down to your waist are lank becoming bru.
And yes, the gallows might brand me the hypocritical uber-cretin for daring to speak about the crazed use of “rutcha” in what purports to be a civilised society. But I have learnt the hard way. When a few hours of pleasure equals a few days of suffering, are our priorities not severely warped? I just want the good old days, where the sound of birds tweeting on a summer’s day was a blessing, and not the sound of satan reverberating in your head during a slash-your-wrists come down. I want to talk to people I know, people I like, without them rattling on about a banal topic like gas stoves, and then popping off to the bathroom every 25 minutes for a top up of “self-confidence”. Its a dirty drug that makes you who you are not, and its frequency is becoming straight up unacceptable. One day it will come crumbling down, and you might be too numb to realize it, but thanks for providing illegal Nigerians with gainful employment.
*Follow @Stroobz on Twitter as he sets fire to the rain AND the wind (Fuck you Adele)