Cokehead Quotes

There’s cat feces in my Batman costume, and all the lines in my screenplay were snorted by the neighborhood cokehead. Ah, but that’s life, no?

It's by far the best decision to find someone who, right out of the gate, is at least a moderately good person who won't constantly leave you shakily checking your phone like some lovestruck cokehead.

Little did I know, my pursuit of justice would mean journeying deep into the feather underground, a world of fanatical fly-tiers and plume peddlers, cokeheads and big game hunters, ex-detectives and shady dentists. From the lies and threats, rumors and half-truths, revelations and frustrations, I came to understand something about the devilish relationship between man and nature and his unrelenting desire to lay claim to its beauty, whatever the cost.

Lucas sneered. “Let’s try again, muppet. Officer Cokehead won’t allow Indie to breathe without him around. Apparently, we’re no longer allowed to hang out because of his small dick syndrome.” “Small dick!” Alex exclaimed, as if Lucas just told him the earth was flat. “My cock already made more money than you this year and will soon need a full staff to manage his career. Don’t you fucking disrespect him.” Was I really standing there listening to three grown-up British men discussing Alex’s penis?

Coke-heads don't build pyramids.

was throwing at Mood, and attached herself to the star deejay, Frankie Romano. This pissed Bobby off big-time. Why the hell was she going after Frankie? Everyone knew that Frankie was a major womanizing cokehead whom M.J. sometimes hired for the occasional big party. He made an attempt to talk to Serenity, but she blew him off, acting as if she barely knew him.

Luxury yacht, tropical seas, babes in bikinis…dream job, right? Wrong. The passengers are rich jerks who treat the crew like garbage, when they aren’t pretending we’re their whores. The best day was when that cokehead heiress Kalina tried to fire me just for doing my job. I swore I’d never go back home to my parents and their crazy fundamentalist ranch in the desert, but nothing could be worse than this.      And then the

crew like garbage, when they aren’t pretending we’re their whores. The best day was when that cokehead

She’s sweating like a coke-head freak. We should phone and report her.” “Shhhh. Eyes on the test, people.” “Look at her now. Her freaking eyes are all black. She’s doing drugs, I’m telling you.” The

I chose to have only salads and fruits.This was a matter of concern for all my overly concerned relatives. “Maya, why isn’t Amira eating anything?” asked aconcerned distant relative, someone I had spoken to maybe once in my entire life. All I felt like saying to Monisha Auntyat that moment was, “Aunty, before worrying about my food habits, worry about your cokehead son, Tarun.” But I held my tongue and let the grownups carry on with their banter. “Oh Monisha, don’t worry about her. You know this generation. They all have these phases. In no time, she will again be hogging her junk food.” my motherreplied. But was I going to be? Why did my own mother’s words sting me to such an extent that I considered it to be my first trigger towards the journey of a lifetime of making excuses to run away from social situations that involved food or running far, far away from the slightest smell of food?

In essence, the cocaine user feels, after the orgasm-like flash, a long afterglow (sometimes three hours long) during which it seems almost impossible to be frightened, depressed or in any way defeated. Some cokeheads hit again in a half hour, or even sooner, to magnify this afterglow. Whatever happens, the user is, at this stage, master of the situation. Hence, in ancient Peru, the coca leaf was the symbol of the royal family, the Incas, and myth claimed that the children of the sun had given this plant to humanity “to cause the unhappy to forget their misery.

That kind of cliché, which used to be endemic in true-detective magazines and tabloids, is utter rubbish. Heroin addicts are always impotent; or, if there are any exceptions to this rule, they are few and far between. They never become “high” in the sense that pot smokers, speed freaks, cokeheads or even boozehounds become “high.” Basically, they behave like nobody so much as your Aunt Matilda since the doctor put her on heavy tranquilizers. Heroin is, indeed, a heavy tranquilizer itself.

Hunter gradually lost the ability to sustain the necessary concentration to write, almost certainly because of the cocaine and booze. He wasn’t a binge cokehead. Hunter snorted a little bit all day, probably to balance the whiskey, but I’m sure it impaired his ability to concentrate.

When Larraine called Pastor Daryl to ask if the church could lend her money so that she might avoid eviction, he said he’d have to think about it. The last time Larraine called, she had said she’d been robbed at gunpoint. Pastor Daryl reached into the church’s coffers and gave her a few hundred dollars for the rent. Larraine had been robbed, but not by a stranger with a gun. Susan and Lane’s cokehead daughter had broken into her trailer when no one was home. Susan phoned Pastor Daryl to report Larraine’s lie. Pastor Daryl felt torn. On the one hand, he thought it was the job of the church, not the government, to care for the poor and hungry. That, to him, was “pure Christianity.” When it came to Larraine, though, Pastor Daryl believed a lot of hardship was self-inflicted. “She made some stupid choices, spending her money foolishly….Making her go without for a while may be the best thing for her, so that she can be reminded, ‘Hey when I make foolish choices there are consequences.’ ” It was easy to go on about helping “the poor.” Helping a poor person with a name, a face, a history, and many needs, a person whose mistakes and lapses of judgment you have recorded—that was a more trying matter.

But the more I found out, the greater the mystery grew, and with it, my own compulsion to solve it. Little did I know, my pursuit of justice would mean journeying deep into the feather underground, a world of fanatical fly-tiers and plume peddlers, cokeheads and big game hunters, ex-detectives and shady dentists. From the lies and threats, rumors and half-truths, revelations and frustrations, I came to understand something about the devilish relationship between man and nature and his unrelenting desire to lay claim to its beauty, whatever the cost.

The person smokes pot. Little alcohol, no hard drugs, but more than an occasional toke—although never while working: only at home, before bed. “Are you sure it shows up in your blood?” I asked, innocently. Ha. I’m an authority now. It stays in your bloodstream for six weeks. I called the executive producer, who said: “That can’t be what they’re testing for. It must be hard drugs.” Ironically, though, if you’re a cokehead or a heroin addict, relax: Those things go right out of you, a few days and they’re gone. And you can also be the biggest alcoholic on the planet, but they won’t test for that.

I missed touching her. My sudden yearning for her was as strong as the jonesing of a cokehead for a hit