Cocaine Anonymous Quotes

Define a lot of coffee . . . ,” I said, knowing that my caffeine consumption would probably make Juan Valdez pack up his donkey and run for the hills of Colombia. I was almost embarrassed to admit the amount of coffee I would drink in one day, for fear that he would 5150 me and send me off in a straitjacket to the nearest Caffeine Anonymous meeting. I had recently come to terms with this addiction, realizing that maybe five pots of coffee a day was slightly overdoing it, but I hadn’t accepted the dire consequences until now. Unfortunately, I’m THAT guy. Give me one, I want ten. There is a reason why I still to this day have never done cocaine, because deep down I know that if I did coke the same way I drink coffee, I’d be sucking dicks at the bus stop every morning for an eight ball.

when you eat sugar, according to research by Bartley Hoebel of Princeton University, it triggers a response in the same part of the brain—known as the “reward center”—that is targeted by cocaine, alcohol, nicotine, and other addictive substances.

A woman arriving at Montreal airport on Halloween last year was carrying in her luggage three pumpkins filled with 4.4 lb. (2 kg) of cocaine.

From the outset, the drug war could have been waged primarily in overwhelmingly white suburbs or on college campuses. SWAT teams could have rappelled from helicopters in gated suburban communities and raided the homes of high school lacrosse players known for hosting coke and ecstasy parties after their games. The police could have seized televisions, furniture, and cash from fraternity houses based on an anonymous tip that a few joints or a stash of cocaine could be found hidden in someone's dresser drawer. Suburban homemakers could have been placed under surveillance and subjected to undercover operations designed to catch them violating laws regulating the use and sale of prescription 'uppers.' All of this could have happened as a matter of routine in white communities, but it did not.

Imagine this scenario: the Medellin cocaine cartel of Colombia mounts a successful military offensive against the United States, then forces the U.S. to legalize cocaine and allow the cartel to import the drug into five major American cities, unsupervised and untaxed by the U.S. The American government also agrees to let the drug lords govern all Colombian citizens who operate in these cities, plus the U.S. has

The following year, in April 1986, the AP published yet another report on Contras and cocaine. It revealed that the FBI had quietly launched an investigation into accounts of weapons shipments from the United States to Contra base camps in Central America, Contra involvement in drug smuggling, and a reported conspiracy to assassinate the U.S. Ambassador to Costa Rica. Several individuals interviewed by the AP confirmed the stories, sharing firsthand knowledge on the condition of anonymity.

From the outset, the drug war could have been waged primarily in overwhelmingly white suburbs or on college campuses. SWAT teams could have rappelled from helicopters in gated suburban communities and raided the homes of high school lacrosse players known for hosting coke and ecstasy parties after their games. The police could have seized televisions, furniture, and cash from fraternity houses based on an anonymous tip that a few joints or a stash of cocaine could be found hidden in someone’s dresser drawer. Suburban homemakers could have been placed under surveillance and subjected to undercover operations designed to catch them violating laws regulating the use and sale of prescription “uppers.” All of this could have happened as a matter of routine in white communities, but it did not.

It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco.

WEST HOLLYWOOD, Calif. — The harrowing drama “I Smile Back,” making its debut on Sunday at the Sundance Film Festival, opens with a drawn-out shot of a naked, forlorn woman. She is an alcoholic suburban mom having a cocaine-fueled affair and wrestling with mental illness. At one point she gets beaten bloody in an alley.

Google Analytics is the crack cocaine of Internet surveillance. Once you see it, you never want to give it up.

Oh Nan,” I muttered, “you’re so parochial.” But it turns out my dear ol’ nan was right. My nan’s “Kilroy drugs ladder” led inexorably from marijuana to amphetamines, to LSD to ecstasy to cocaine and then crack to—cue fanfare—heroin: the drug addict’s jackpot.

The anonymous Com-12 briefing refers to the Black Rose Organization, which runs a “Black World Order” using drug monies from the Golden Triangle and the Golden Crescent. According to this anonymous but intriguing report, the current chairman and co-founder of the Black Rose is alleged to be George Bush (known in underworld circles as the White Rose). Bush is alleged to have developed a heroin shipment ring while Ambassador in China, and to run cocaine from Panama through his offshore oil rigs.

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Speaking of distortions of reality, I would guess that it was probably sometime around 2011 that I started noticing that the love of my life always carried bottles of Angostura bitters around with her, hidden in her purse. Maybe you are familiar with this concoction, maybe not. Bitters are a staple of every bar—a potent proprietary blend of herbs, spices, and alcohol that, when added to certain cocktails, both deepens and brightens the flavor profiles of those drinks. Bitters deliver such an intense taste sensation that you don’t need much of the stuff—just a dash. But Rayya wasn’t using the bitters to brighten up a cocktail—because she didn’t drink cocktails, because she was sober. And she wasn’t adding a few drops to some nonalcoholic beverage, either, as people sometimes do. No, she was just straight-up drinking the stuff, before, during, and after every meal—on the rocks—often downing an entire bottle at a time. And Angostura bitters have an alcohol content of 44.7 percent, which is equivalent to most vodkas, whiskeys, rums, and tequilas. Now, I know this doesn’t make sense—that somebody who claimed to be sober was also drinking every day—but that’s what Rayya was doing. She was doing this, mind you, while she was still telling her story of sobriety at twelve-step meetings (including Alcoholics Anonymous meetings) and also writing a memoir about her victory over substance addiction. Soon the bottles of Angostura bitters started showing up everywhere—not only in her purse but also in her suitcase, in the fridge, on the kitchen shelves next to her boxes of cereal, in the glove compartment of her car. She even kept bottles of bitters—multiple bottles—at her friends’ houses for when she came over to visit. (We all kept finding them in the weirdest places for years after she died.) She always had to check her luggage when we flew, because she wouldn't go anywhere without a significant stash of these magical little bottles. I never questioned any of this, because I never questioned anything Rayya did back then, because I essentially saw Rayya as a godlike figure who was always right about everything. Nevertheless, she did once tell me that a doctor had “prescribed” the bitters to her, to help her digest her food and to take the edge off her chronic stomach pain. Now, I don’t know what the doctor actually said, because I wasn’t there. I do know a few things, though. I know that, a few years later, Rayya would also tell me that a doctor had prescribed cocaine to her (don’t worry; we’ll get to that story eventually), so she may not have been a reliable narrator on such matters. But I also know that Angostura is what’s commonly called a digestif—which is exactly what it sounds like: something that helps with digestion. The mixture, in fact, was created in 1824 by the German surgeon general of Simón Bolívar’s army, who prescribed it to his troops in Venezuela to ease their stomach problems. Angostura bitters, in other words, were indeed once used medicinally. Then again, so was cocaine.

Attentive readers may remember that I had started attending twelve-step meetings when Rayya was on cocaine and my world was falling down around my ears. You may also remember that I’d hated every minute of those meeting—although I did take some notes. You may not be surprised to learn, then, that I had stopped attending those meetings as soon as I could—which in my case meant: as soon as Rayya stopped using cocaine and started being nice to me again. Because all my problems were solved after that, right? I mean, why should I have to attend a recovery program designed to support people whose lives are affected by the addictions of others if my “other” wasn’t acting out in her addiction anymore? And why should I have to attend meetings for sex and love addiction when I was actually getting love again, from someone I was devoted to? Anyhow, I’m way smarter than most people, and I had quickly breezed through all the literature—so I figured that I basically understood all the principles of these programs and had learned all I needed to learn. Obviously. So I had walked out of the rooms of recovery in late October of 2017 like, Thanks for all the information, everyone—I’m all set now! Nice meeting you! I’ll take it from here! Except that I wasn’t all set, because I have never been “all set.

How quickly the dragon of addiction began to roar through Rayya’s blood—demanding what it always demands: more, more, more. Soon Rayya went from needing one morphine pill a day to two pills a day to three a day, to one pill every hour, to two pills every hour, to clusters of pills at a time—until, within a matter of a few weeks, she was yelling into the phone to her doctors, “This shit doesn’t fucking work on me! You gotta give me something stronger, or I swear to fucking God I will go out there on Fourteenth Street and find something stronger and shoot it right into my fucking veins—and don’t think I don’t know how!” So then they gave her methadone. And then they gave her fentanyl patches (“something stronger,” to be sure), which worked beautifully until they didn’t—until her addict’s brain became resistant to the powers of even this most formidable and dangerous of drugs. That’s when Rayya had the inspired idea to add a bit of cocaine to the mix, “to give me a little bump and help me stay awake”—and she bought her first gram of coke in nearly twenty years and put it right up her nose, to tremendous and obvious relief. Was that when she officially lost her sobriety and sanity? Or was it the next night—when she shot the remainder of the cocaine into her arm (“better than the nose, as always,” she said) and then chased it with a few morphine pills, then downed a handful of muscle relaxants just for good measure, and then informed me as she was nodding off into oblivion that “a hole just opened up through our bedroom ceiling and my ancestors are rolling in, four layers deep”? Was that the moment of relapse? Or had it started long before the cancer even appeared? Had she fallen off the wagon many years earlier, when she decided to start drinking and hide it from everyone? Or had she begun sliding back into addiction when she had stopped going to twelve-step meetings because she got annoyed with all those “rigid bitches” in the rooms, and because she didn’t want to work a program anymore? Or had her decline begun even before then, when she stopped letting people know how much emotional pain she was in, and decided to keep her suffering a secret from those who loved her? Or was it all of that combined? Does an avalanche happen suddenly, or does it begin with the first flake of snow that sticks to the edge of the mountain?

Did I completely lose my mind that night in the spring of 2017 when she commanded me to give her some cash so she could buy that first gram of cocaine—and I did it, without hesitation? (In my weak defense, she had looked me straight in the eyes and told me, “This is the exact amount of cocaine that will last me until I die, trust me. I’m just gonna need a tiny amount of coke each day, to keep me from falling asleep in my soup because of the opioids. Trust me, I know how to do this. It’s better if we only risk buying it once—that’s why we’re getting such a large amount.”) Or was I a total goner a few days later, when she told me to go to the ATM again and get more money so she could buy more cocaine (an eight ball this time), and I did it? Or was it the morning I walked down to a “harm reduction” agency in Chinatown and registered myself with the City of New York as an active intravenous drug user so I could get clean needles for Rayya—because I was determined to keep her safe and free from infection, even as she was dying of cancer and shooting cocaine and opioids into the veins of her feet, her hands, her neck? And also because I wanted her to see what a good girl I was, what a loving and accepting girl, what a generous girl? Or did I abandon myself completely the first time I suggested that perhaps she was becoming addicted to the cocaine, and she told me I was a “needy fucking crybaby” who needed to “back the fuck off from talking about shit you don’t even fucking understand,” and I stuck around after that for more abuse? Or was it when she and I (who had never once had an argument, in seventeen years of friendship and love) suddenly started fighting every day, as I begged her to look at me again like she used to, to touch me like she used to, to speak to me the way she used to? Was it when I started sobbing, ‘Where did you go, where did our love go?’” Was it when I started hiding in the bathroom at night, weeping on the floor (again with the crying on the bathroom floor!) while she hid in another bathroom, grinding down her cocaine into a finer and finer powder?

Rayya had delivered a perfect death blow—because she, of all people, knew just how to kill me. She knew exactly where my deepest insecurities were hidden. She knew I’d received messages since childhood that my “emotional bullshit” was too much trouble for anyone to deal with. She knew I was terrified that I would always drive away the people I loved by being too needy, too clingy. She knew I’d spent most of my life trying to show people only the “good parts” of me because I was sure that if they saw the pain and fear and need that lurked below the surface, they would find me repulsive and reject me. She had in fact witnessed the most unlovable parts of me, and had once seemed to love them. But now she was telling the truth: I was disgusting, and she hated me. And it was with that wicked, blistering sentence—“I wish we’d never gotten together”—that Rayya had taken the last bits of my broken heart and ground them beneath the heel of her motorcycle boot, pulverizing me into grains even finer than cocaine. Grinding me down until there was nothing left of me. And that was exactly what she’d meant to do to me—for daring to confront her.