Don’t smoke crack in my laundry room


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I haven’t always been single, I’ve also had many terrible boyfriends! Sure, I’ve had some decent ones too but none of them stuck so they weren’t that great. And they weren’t funny so I won’t be writing about them.

Did you know that the glass tube from an eyedropper can be used as a crack pipe? Oh, the things you learn when dating a junky!

I noticed one of my droppers was missing from a bottle of essential oil. I wondered how that happened. I certainly didn’t think my boyfriend was using them to smoke crack in my laundry room. He was a recovering addict. In recovery, he said. Actually he was still using heroin, shooting up in my bathroom in the middle of the night. I sometimes smelled vinegar in the bathroom which perplexed me. Another fun fact, when you cook heroin it smells like vinegar!

His veins had collapsed long ago, he had no track marks because his veins were unusable. He just shot into muscle, which leaves no mark. He was a true ADD case so heroin made him relatively mellow, not obviously nodding off. It took me a little while to realize he was using. I had an amazing navy pea coat I had loaned him, and one evening he came over wearing it. He was on the porch smoking. I walked over to the coat and looked inside the inner pocket. There was a small brown paper bag full of hypodermic needles. I have no idea what led me to look. Nor do I have any idea what led me to try to help his sorry ass get clean. I should have kicked him out immediately. Obviously. But the sex was surprisingly epic, he was a terribly sweet person under the junky asshole. The things we do for love, eh?

So eventually he was on suboxone. It renders opioids ineffective, so he wasn’t using heroin or anything like that. But he was smoking crack. In my laundry room. With my essential oil eyedroppers. I kept discovering more of the droppers had disappeared. One afternoon I just walked down to my laundry room. I saw that the key was gone. He was locked in there. I knocked. When he finally opened the door his eyes looked like a cartoon character who’s been hit in the head with an anvil. Crazy eyes. It smelled like burning plastic, which I know is what crack smells like. Living in San Francisco’s tenderloin taught me that. He ridiculously tried to deny it. Then tried to diminish it by saying “I never pay for it so it doesn’t count!”    Oh, the junky mind!

So I clarified the previously unspoken rule, Don’t smoke crack in my laundry room!  I wish I had that in needlepoint. And also, the moral of this story is, Junkies don’t make good boyfriends.


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