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Seems the one thing I learned in college is that college is not for me. Ten years later, dead broke, I come back to the old neighborhood to live with my parents for a few months - and to write, I tell people. And then, as if God really loves me, crank vanishes from my neighborhood - and no one misses it. I vow never to do it again (“Never again, never again,” the chant of the meth-head), but do it eight or nine more times. It takes three days to weather the hangover - the most desiccated and noxiously enervated state I’ve ever experienced. But then comes the drip, drip, drip, that bitter, alkaloid savor the meth user learns to associate with pleasure, and I wander around grinding my teeth and feeling like Bruce Lee grafted onto Aldous Huxley for about twelve hours. I am certain I will sneeze blood all over the curtains, that I’ve done permanent damage. I try not to cry, the burning pain is so terrible. Whiffing something straight up your nose into your brain seems a violation of human dignity, and crank looks nasty, like ant poison and pulverized glass all chopped up on that mirror.
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He calls it “crank,” like a car part or a grouchy old man. My neighbor, a divorced mechanic who invites kids in and pours them draft beer to increase drug sales and his chances with the girls, offers me my first taste of methamphetamine at age fifteen.