Drug Supplier Quotes

I told her that I didn't want to take any drugs. That I had come here not to take drugs. "Listen," she said, not unkindly, "up until now I would say that ninety-nine percent of all the narcotics you have taken in your life you bought from guys you didn't know, in bathrooms or on street corners, something like that. Correct?" I nodded. "Well these guys could have been selling you salt or strychnine. They didn't care. They wanted your money. I don't care about your money, and, unlike your previous suppliers, I went to college to study just the right drugs to give to people like you in order to help you get better. So, bearing all that in mind ... Take the fucking drugs!" I took the drugs.

Unconditional blame is the tendency to explain all difficulties exclusively as the consequence of forces beyond your influence, to see yourself as an absolute victim of external circumstances. Every person suffers the impact of factors beyond his control, so we are all, in a sense, victims. We are not, however, absolute victims. We have the ability to respond to our circumstances and influence how they affect us. In contrast, the unconditional blamer defines his victim-identity by his helplessness, disowning any power to manage his life and assigning causality only to that which is beyond his control. Unconditional blamers believe that their problems are always someone else’s fault, and that there’s nothing they could have done to prevent them. Consequently, they believe that there’s nothing they should do to address them. Unconditional blamers feel innocent, unfairly burdened by others who do things they “shouldn’t” do because of maliciousness or stupidity. According to the unconditional blamer, these others “ought” to fix the problems they created. Blamers live in a state of self-righteous indignation, trying to control people around them with their accusations and angry demands. What the unconditional blamer does not see is that in order to claim innocence, he has to relinquish his power. If he is not part of the problem, he cannot be part of the solution. In fact, rather than being the main character of his life, the blamer is a spectator. Watching his own suffering from the sidelines, he feels “safe” because his misery is always somebody else’s fault. Blame is a tranquilizer. It soothes the blamer, sheltering him from accountability for his life. But like any drug, its soothing effect quickly turns sour, miring him in resignation and resentment. In order to avoid anxiety and guilt, the blamer must disown his freedom and power and see himself as a plaything of others. The blamer feels victimized at work. His job is fraught with letdowns, betrayals, disappointments, and resentments. He feels that he is expected to fix problems he didn’t create, yet his efforts are never recognized. So he shields himself with justifications. Breakdowns are never his fault, nor are solutions his responsibility. He is not accountable because it is always other people who failed to do what they should have done. Managers don’t give him direction as they should, employees don’t support him as they should, colleagues don’t cooperate with him as they should, customers demand much more than they should, suppliers don’t respond as they should, senior executives don’t lead the organization as they should, administration systems don’t work as they should—the whole company is a mess. In addition, the economy is weak, the job market tough, the taxes confiscatory, the regulations crippling, the interest rates exorbitant, and the competition fierce (especially because of those evil foreigners who pay unfairly low wages). And if it weren’t difficult enough to survive in this environment, everybody demands extraordinary results. The blamer never tires of reciting his tune, “Life is not fair!

Drama!" said Mr. Hitchens. Robin Shrugged. "That's what terrorism is, basically--pure theater. Nothing in particular is ever accomplished by it, other than to focus attention on a small group of people who seize absolute power by threatening everything that holds civilization together." "Absolute power," mused Mrs. Pollifax. "Like monstrous children thumbing their noses at adults who live by codes and laws and scruples." Robin said in a hard voice, "In my line of work I've tangled with narcotic dealers and suppliers--that's Interpol's job--and I can say of them that at least they give value for their money. If what they sell destroys human lives their victims cooperate by choice in their own destruction, and if drug dealers bend and break every law in the book they at least know the laws. "But terrorists--" He shook his head. "They're the parasites of the century. They want to make a statement, they simply toss a bomb or round up innocent people to hold hostage, or kill without compunction, remorse or compassion. If they need money, they simply rob a bank. I have to admit not only my contempt for them," he added, "but my fear, too, because their only passion is to mock and to destroy, and that really is frightening.

as the manager of the club explained, you didn’t have a dog and bark yourself. They brought in the punters – along with the named DJs, who were a breed apart already. Not that he was complaining, of course. And as he was now going to be one of the main drug suppliers, he knew that it would be like printing money. Clubs, drink, girls and drugs went hand in hand for this generation, and that suited him right down to the ground. He was meeting with Willy McCormack that evening. Angus knew him from the days when he used to come out here on holiday as a kid with his mum and dad. He had not known till recently that his mum had invested heavily out here and was considered one of the old guard by everyone. She was a shrewdie all right. If it had been left to his old man, he would have just treated this place as a massive piss-up. Angus knew that he had a lot of his father in him – he could be a flake. But he also knew that he had his mother in him too and he was determined to make sure that, as much as he liked to play, he got the work sorted first. He heard the bedroom door open and watched as a tall redhead with lightly tanned skin, wearing his soiled shirt, walked towards him. In the clear light of day she wasn’t as nifty as she had seemed the night before, but she was still what he would class a sort. She went into the small kitchen and started to make coffee. He assumed she had been here before, and that didn’t surprise him in the least.

That very month, at the St. Louis Children’s Hospital, two young patients experienced strange and alarming symptoms. As they underwent dialysis, a lifesaving procedure to filter blood for those whose kidneys don’t work properly, the patients’ eyes started swelling, their heart rates escalated, and their blood pressure dropped. These were signs of a life-threatening allergic reaction. Dr. Anne Beck, the director of the nephrology unit, directed her staff to wash out the tubing with extra fluid before hooking the children back up to the dialysis machines. For the next two months, everything seemed fine. But in January 2008, the symptoms struck again. Beck contacted an epidemiologist specializing in children’s infectious diseases who immediately assembled a command center where a team worked around the clock to uncover the cause of the strange reactions. But as more children succumbed and the staff grew frightened, the epidemiologist notified the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The CDC immediately contacted dialysis centers in other states and learned of similar reactions elsewhere. As the CDC and the FDA began a joint investigation, their efforts pointed to a common denominator: all the sickened patients had been given heparin made by the brand-name company Baxter, the nation’s biggest heparin supplier. It was a drug that patients took intravenously during dialysis to ensure that they didn’t suffer blood clots. Within weeks, Baxter—at the FDA’s urging—began a sweeping series of recalls, until finally the allergic reactions stopped. Yet

By far the main stakeholder Shkreli took from was customers – patients and health insurance companies. But Shkreli also took from his colleagues, who may have joined a biotech start-up excited about inventing new drugs, but instead spent their days ordered to squeeze higher profits from existing drugs. He took from suppliers, because the restricted sale and thus production of Daraprim slashed the demand for its inputs. And he took from communities, because reduced access to Daraprim hurt patients, their families and their friends.

Tobacco was the first of the New World drugs to be widely accepted in the Old World, and the European zest for it played a major role in opening North America to colonization. Contemporary civic mythology of the United States overlooks this role of America as drug supplier to the world.

With heroin alone, the sources of supply seemed finite and organizational; access was limited to those with a genuine connection to the New York suppliers, who had, in turn, cultivated a connection to a small number of importers. The cocaine epidemic changed that as well, creating a freelance market with twenty-year-old wholesalers supplying seventeen- year-old dealers. Anyone could ride the Amtrak or the Greyhound to New York and come back with a package. By the late eighties, the professionals were effectively marginalized in Baltimore; cocaine and the open market made the concept of territory irrelevant to the city drug trade.