MY SWEET ADDICTION

Dear Reader;

I have written this little epistle by employing stream of consciousness, with little rewriting, as I think it provides the best insight into my psyche … into my personal experiences in this strange and intoxicating underworld.

Warning: Like books of yore, there are no pictures in this story. Get over it.

You might say it’s my dirty little secret. You might say it will ruin my life. You might say it’s wreaking havoc on my family. You might say it has changed me from the person you once knew. You might say that one day, the authorities will catch up to me, and then there will be hell to pay. Or, you might just say that it’s my life, and my business, and you can just choose to keep your big nose out of my personal affairs.

I am choosing to speak about “my sweet addiction” (although I do not see it as one) in the most general terms, partly because in doing so, more people will be able to relate to my story. And if that happens, then that is a good thing.

First I will talk about how I feel when I do it, and why I do it. In briefest terms--because my story could be a book, and indeed many have written books about it--I do it because it makes me feel more confident. Powerful, even. In a world that has always chosen to ignore me or see me as just one in a great mob of sheeple, when I indulge, I suddenly feel unique, and the vision of the ride I am going to have puts me in a state of euphoria: suddenly I can do anything, and I know that as a result of this “ride”, I will be important and respected, rich and famous. People who know me will bow down at me feet and tell me how wrong they were about me for lo those many years. I am drunk with possibilities. It is not the best feeling in the world, but it is one of the best, and I am willing to suffer a great deal of society’s judgement in order to bathe in that feeling. That’s how I feel. And that’s why I do it.

Then there is the more awkward question of where I get the money for it. Again, the answer is fairly straightforward: anywhere I can. I take money from my paycheck, is the first and most obvious answer--and no, you must stop stereotyping people, dammit!--YES, I am still working. Functional. It has not made me unemployable, nor do I sit all day in a dark room indulging in my addiction. Although admittedly, many do. And yes, I will admit: money goes to my addiction that should go to, oh, paying the electric bill or making sure I have the perfect insurance plan. Car oil does not get changed, there is no extra money for a veterinarian if my pet gets sick, and dirty clothes pile up in the corner, because I have even been known to take my quarters for the laundromat, roll them up in ten dollar increments, and use them to buy more of my “drug of choice”. (I hate that phrase.) But before you judge me, know that I can always get cash, when I really need it. Although it does mean that in this shadow world, you just have to get more involved than merely indulging, you have to deal a little. Wheel and deal. You have to be willing to sell something, and you have to have something to sell. And yes, if you don’t have anything to sell left in your home or in your person or in your life, then maybe it is time to take a look at your habit.

OK, so maybe it IS an addiction. Fine then, truth time: I have been known to sell family heirlooms and borrow from my own mother, lying about why I needed it, to indulge. So no, perhaps I am not the nicest of persons. I will grant you that. So what’s your point? It’s like my life would be so much improved if I bought that new sweater vest and penny loafers she wants me to buy, so I can look nice for job interviews? (And yes, I do still have my old job. She just thinks that “I could do better.” She’s never been satisfied. Never. And that, my friends, is one of the reasons I engage in my sweet addiction. Don’t you love the circular irony?)

As for concerns about quality, and the dangers of acquiring “some bad shit”, I will grant you that I have gotten burned a few of times, and that was my own mistake. I got careless and felt desperate; I acted too fast and didn’t wait for the connections I trusted. I know what to get and where to get it, but sometimes that takes patience, which I don’t have much of when I am experiencing the glorious, gripping “itch”, and feeling that itch real powerful bad.

But since this rant is about full disclosure, let me be bleeding-out honest: getting your hands on some bad shit … and the consequences of your hungry and frantic judgment … will scare the hell out of you in the moment, and you will probably carry that moment, and the consequences of what could have happened, burning deep in your soul, for the rest of your life. You only need to go on Reddit to hear nightmare story after nightmare story of what happened when people did some knee-jerk thing because they needed it, and needed it now.

Oh, and in case those of you who are virginal to the dark vices haven’t already grasped the obvious, Do Not Do It At Work. Need I say more? Lots of people have been fired on the spot once the boss knows, or even suspects, and then, oh dear oh dear oh dear, you can no longer afford your sweet addiction. Another irony.

Lastly, the eternal bugaboo, where to score? The answer, as any tweaker knows, is just about anywhere, these days. So let me tell you my personal rules. I used to get it from friends, but I cut that out. They are too close to my family, I don’t want the people I care about gossipping behind my back (although I know they do anyway), and I don’t like people having that much power over me. Knowledge is power. And this is kinda a big thing to know about someone.

And yes, let’s “go there”... I DID used to get it on the Dark Web. I was Ruler of Tor, and I loved the shadowy anonymity--until things happened like the Dread Pirate Roberts having his ship sunk out from under him, and I realized that I didn't have the kind of anonymity that I thought I did. And I couldn’t enjoy my sweet addiction any more, fearing that the Feds would show up at my door, and that it would be time to Pay the Piper. And that uberking, man, that T. Rex who currently rules our country? That was one pipe I had no desire to play (pay). Nor did I want to play the pipes you find in cell blocks, because people have been known to go to prison for this, especially those hijynx involving Dark Web shenanigans.

And frankly, I don’t feel very secure about putting too much information about myself on the Light Web either, which informs my current “buying” strategies.

So I get it at an unsuspecting place. I get it locally, but from strangers. But from vetted strangers. I know there is a place in California where groups of people, under the watchful eye of a knowledgeable and experienced master, gather together, head off to a beautiful and mystical destination, and drop acid for the weekend. Illegal, yes, but again, everybody is vetted. It is glorious, mind expanding, nobody gets hurt, and everybody gets helped.

But I didn’t have the nerve to take that trip, back when I lived in that wonderful, lunatic state. So now I have to turn to the labyrinthine corridors of Washington D.C., which is just as wild and wacky a kingdom, if you know it as well as I do. I grew up here. I went to college here, graduate school here, even did my PhD work here, so I know Washington. I know it well. And please, no cracks about how somebody so intelligent and educated as me can do something so stupid and destructive on a constant basis. You pathetic Bible thumper with your white sugar fixation, haven’t you read that part in the Book of Matthew which says “Judge not . . .” etcetera.

So I am on my way to meet with this group, and score a little of my sweet addiction. They meet in a funky place down on 15th Street. It brings back memories. It is a short drive to Georgetown, where I lived next to the Four Seasons while I was attending American University. It is near Foggy Bottom, where I went to all those indie movies and indie bookstores with my friends, always stopping by some beatnick revival coffeehouse for strong black coffee, none of these pretentious Millennial Crappuccinos. Black coffee. (Hell, I’ll drink Chock Full O’ Nuts, if the DJ is spinning the night away with classics like “Stairway to Heaven” and “Freebird” “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” and “Layla” [assuming it’s the original version of course, with the epic piano coda at the end {made all the more heart-wrenching because Jim Gordon murdered his mother and ended up in prison, instead of a mental institution, where he belonged}, not that ridiculous acoustic version that drips out of the speakers like so much post-coital fluid {sorry about your kid, Eric, but seriously?}]). But where was I? Ah yes. Black coffee, dammit. It was good enough for my fisherman/trucker/snow-plow-operator-for-the-state-of-Minnesota, blue collar gramps, so it’s good enough for me, dammit. Try it, you twenty-something and thirty something safe-space-seeking, trigger-warning-craving, spoiled-sparrowfart twats.

But I digress.

Where I am going is even not too far from the White House and the Capitol Building. So imagine going to such a group, so close to such power and pomp. So close to the very place where all our laws are made, and me going to scoff at the prestigious status quo masters of our country's fate.

I sit down at a table across from a man who is dressed like he could sell me car insurance. The images of the people who sell to you are changing fast these days, savvy? No longer are they lingering on street corners, driving purple jacked-up cars, and dressed like low-life anti-heroes from 80's TV shows.

He smiles at me. I smile at him. It is comfortable, and I feel safe. My wad of money is burning a hole in my pocket. The thought of the thrill I am about to experience fills me with an anticipation, nay, a bliss, that I cannot properly put into words, although the shame I would feel if my loved ones could see me now lurks ever-so-menacingly on the edges of my euphoria.

I take a deep breath, pull out my cash, and speak the words:

“I’d like to buy a bitcoin.”