Levity
09-13-2007, 04:21 AM
This town sucks.
First, I relocate here permanently for work and school related reasons. I don’t do my research, and I end up hating the schooling (more than usual) and am permanently bored at the job. I do drug counseling and specialize in opiate abuse (ironic, huh?), but here I’m forced to work with a mentally retarded population dealing with homelessness and crack addiction. Jesus… You think dealing with a crackhead is hard, try dealing with retarded crackhead.
(And before anyone gets pissed I call them “retarded” rather than “developmentally challenged,” let me tell you that they don’t care – So why should I? They’re fucking retarded. They don’t understand what the fuck I call them.)
Second, I’m a semi-legit pain patient with a good history and great documentation. However, Chicago doctors are too damn scared to write scripts for anything but Tramadol and hugs. Well, Opana, but that’s new and expensive – and not covered by my insurance – so fuck that.
Third, I don’t care what you say about West and South Side open air drug markets, it’s damn hard to score in this city. Especially if you’re not a thirty plus, skinny ass, track marked dude they know. I’ve never done H, but I hurt really bad and I’m not opposed to snorting or smoking some to take the edge off… Or get high. Whatever.
So here’s the story…
After doing some research (yes, I Googled, “Where to buy heroin in Chicago,” and yes, that is the saddest thing you’ve ever heard), I have a list of places to try and hit up. I’ve spent six or so weeks here fulltime, plus most weekends for the past two years, so I’m not totally city ignorant. Plus I’ve scored other things in other places, so I know how the game goes.
I leave around 5am, according to my neighbor the prime time for idiot yuppies and suburbanites to drive into the city to score. Just before rush hour, so you can get well before you want to kill someone in traffic I guess.
Anyhoo, I proceed to spend the next ten hours driving around the South and West sides. Oh I see plenty of gang graffiti, gang bangers, and corner deals. But every time I drive by or walk up on foot, it’s like I’m dressed in Chicago city blues. I swear, over the totality of the day, no one offered a hook.
Even when I used soft language, “Looking for my friend,” “Trying to get well,” or when I was fucking blatant, “I’m looking for some goddamn heroin,” the dealers just looked at me like I was an idiot. I watched one young whippersnapper actually count of twenties and then count the individual bags before handing them to buyer. When I walked up, said I wanted the same, he responded with, “I dunno what you talkin’ bout bro.”
So then I decide to go home, eat a pod or seven, and give up. Maybe this is God’s way of telling me not to go down this road… When, of course, I get pulled over by a cop. This prick bastard stops me for running a stop sign, then demands I let him search my car. I ask why and I get the whole “Drug neighborhood, suspicious behavior,” bullshit. Well, I don’t have shit, so I say, “If you tear up the ticket for the stop sign, I’ll consent to a search.”
Two hours and one ticket torn up later, he and the nice doggie let me go on my way. Then… Oh wait for it… I hit a pothole the size of my fucking car and have a blow out. So now I’m stranded in the ghetto with a flat tire, hurting like all hell, and I have no drugs. I change the tire without being robbed (or approached to buy drugs) with the Sears Tower staring at me like a big black cock just waiting to fuck me harder.
Drive home, go inside… And I’m out of Tagament. Then my coffee grinder stops working. I can’t only imagine what could be next, but I know I can’t face it, so I took three Ambien and went to bed at like 6pm.
This town sucks.
Next time I’m going to just walk through the project houses with a sign that says, “Will pay one hundred dollars for a hook up.”
*Note, please replace all personal pronouns with a third party noun then consider this a work of total and complete fiction. Drugs are bad.
First, I relocate here permanently for work and school related reasons. I don’t do my research, and I end up hating the schooling (more than usual) and am permanently bored at the job. I do drug counseling and specialize in opiate abuse (ironic, huh?), but here I’m forced to work with a mentally retarded population dealing with homelessness and crack addiction. Jesus… You think dealing with a crackhead is hard, try dealing with retarded crackhead.
(And before anyone gets pissed I call them “retarded” rather than “developmentally challenged,” let me tell you that they don’t care – So why should I? They’re fucking retarded. They don’t understand what the fuck I call them.)
Second, I’m a semi-legit pain patient with a good history and great documentation. However, Chicago doctors are too damn scared to write scripts for anything but Tramadol and hugs. Well, Opana, but that’s new and expensive – and not covered by my insurance – so fuck that.
Third, I don’t care what you say about West and South Side open air drug markets, it’s damn hard to score in this city. Especially if you’re not a thirty plus, skinny ass, track marked dude they know. I’ve never done H, but I hurt really bad and I’m not opposed to snorting or smoking some to take the edge off… Or get high. Whatever.
So here’s the story…
After doing some research (yes, I Googled, “Where to buy heroin in Chicago,” and yes, that is the saddest thing you’ve ever heard), I have a list of places to try and hit up. I’ve spent six or so weeks here fulltime, plus most weekends for the past two years, so I’m not totally city ignorant. Plus I’ve scored other things in other places, so I know how the game goes.
I leave around 5am, according to my neighbor the prime time for idiot yuppies and suburbanites to drive into the city to score. Just before rush hour, so you can get well before you want to kill someone in traffic I guess.
Anyhoo, I proceed to spend the next ten hours driving around the South and West sides. Oh I see plenty of gang graffiti, gang bangers, and corner deals. But every time I drive by or walk up on foot, it’s like I’m dressed in Chicago city blues. I swear, over the totality of the day, no one offered a hook.
Even when I used soft language, “Looking for my friend,” “Trying to get well,” or when I was fucking blatant, “I’m looking for some goddamn heroin,” the dealers just looked at me like I was an idiot. I watched one young whippersnapper actually count of twenties and then count the individual bags before handing them to buyer. When I walked up, said I wanted the same, he responded with, “I dunno what you talkin’ bout bro.”
So then I decide to go home, eat a pod or seven, and give up. Maybe this is God’s way of telling me not to go down this road… When, of course, I get pulled over by a cop. This prick bastard stops me for running a stop sign, then demands I let him search my car. I ask why and I get the whole “Drug neighborhood, suspicious behavior,” bullshit. Well, I don’t have shit, so I say, “If you tear up the ticket for the stop sign, I’ll consent to a search.”
Two hours and one ticket torn up later, he and the nice doggie let me go on my way. Then… Oh wait for it… I hit a pothole the size of my fucking car and have a blow out. So now I’m stranded in the ghetto with a flat tire, hurting like all hell, and I have no drugs. I change the tire without being robbed (or approached to buy drugs) with the Sears Tower staring at me like a big black cock just waiting to fuck me harder.
Drive home, go inside… And I’m out of Tagament. Then my coffee grinder stops working. I can’t only imagine what could be next, but I know I can’t face it, so I took three Ambien and went to bed at like 6pm.
This town sucks.
Next time I’m going to just walk through the project houses with a sign that says, “Will pay one hundred dollars for a hook up.”
*Note, please replace all personal pronouns with a third party noun then consider this a work of total and complete fiction. Drugs are bad.