The Inevitable Question

I’ve been accused of being a drug dealer a lot. Like more than I’m comfortable with actually.

This was especially bad in my early twenties when I had nicer cars. It certainly didn’t help when a North Carolina newspaper published a story claiming that I was an actual drug dealer. Police are ridiculous. I was only doing drugs, not selling them.

And as for maintaining a dwelling and a vehicle, well, I was barely maintaining my pulse. That’s why one of the best attorneys ever bought by the Bank of Mommy and Daddy got me out of almost everything. Possession of marijuana, psh, it’s about to be legal. Might as well have been possession of cigarettes.

The assumption was at its worse when I lived in Richmond, and in addition to my Mercedes with the 20-inch rims, I often drove one of Pete’s exotic cars around. All ten of which had blacked out windows and giant chrome wheels. (Don’t worry, I hated myself back then as much as you hate me right now). I can’t say I wouldn’t have made the same assumption.

People are curious by nature and depending on what kind of mood I was in, and who was asking, the answer to ‘what I did’ could vary drastically. Sometimes I’d say I had a trust fund, other times I said that I was in the ‘people business’ (human trafficking!), always said in a whisper with an arched eyebrow.

Other times I would say marketing or porn. Surprisingly that last one never came to fruition. I’ve been approached several times over the years, which isn’t uncommon if you hang out in sleazy places, but porn is actually a lot of work and doesn’t pay as well as you’d think.

I don’t believe I ever once told the truth which was ‘I date rich dudes, sleep all day, and do drugs while drinking all night’. Although that sounds awesome when I say it now, I use to really care about what other people thought. Eventually, I started getting some actual jobs that I peppered in for legitimacy.

I’ve gotten much better at not flaunting income I can’t verify (i.e. not being a douschbag), so it’s been awhile since I’ve been accused of dealing drugs. The last time was actually at Glenbeigh by some sloppy intake counselor who wouldn’t let me smoke before trapping me in his office for over an hour.

“So how did you support your heroin habit before you came here?”

“Well, I was working at a restaurant, and I would also hook my friends up sometimes”

“So you were a drug dealer?”

“No” legitimately offended, “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, it sounds like you were dealing drugs out of a restaurant”

Thinking about this man’s logic, “if anything I was a drug broker, a middleman, simply taking my fee off the top”

“Well, I’m not going to quibble over words with you”

“Why not? Words are important…”

Luckily, Sexy Therapist saved me from this man and his appalling lack of imagination. Of all the things I’ve wanted to do over the years, dealing drugs was never one of them.

I have no interest in having a bunch of ‘friends’.

The person I like hanging out with the most is myself, so to have a bunch of groupies sounds bothersome, and maybe even like my own private version of hell. I befriended a few dealers in my late teens, and sadly we all knew why I always wanted to ‘hang out’.

Dealers always get caught.

Movies are rarely accurate portrayals of life, except when it comes to dealers getting busted and going to jail. This will inevitably happen to anyone who makes a career out of selling drugs. Although jail is a great place to focus on your writing, there are not enough white people for me to ever really feel at home.

Drug addicts are annoying.

I can personally attest to this one. If we know you are holding we will call you every five minutes until you pick up.

I like my stuff.

Drug dealers also inevitably get robbed, and I bought all of this shit because I like it. The other thing I learned when they kicked in my door in North Carolina is that state police and the FBI don’t care if you like your stuff. They will actually smash and break whatever they can just to reinforce the idea that you chose the wrong country to call home.

I heart drugs.

In my drug brokering days, I would always set a certain amount of whatever substance aside in case my coworkers needed some. This amount would always get smaller and smaller, and not because I was selling any. To someone not committed to self-delusion, this would seem like an obvious flaw in the business plan, but I enjoy overcoming obstacles, so indeed I tried.

If we are friends in real life, you’ll know that I don’t really care for drug dealers, and not for any ridiculous moral reasons. I just find most of them to be insufferable.

If you are smart, you’ll get your narcotics from a cash-quack or an overseas pharmacy. I have a proverbial Rolodex full of both, so let me know if you need suggestions! While it is more expensive it will save you invaluable hours pretending to be friends with someone you can’t stand.

Plus, we all know you’re lying to your parents about that savings account.


  1. In my old apartment building, the coke dealer lived next door. I was never desperate enough to fuck him but plenty did. And he was fat and gross. I guess selling blow is one way to get popular.

    1. Haha that’s amazing….the funny thing is when my dealer friends were convinced girls liked them….she loves drugs not you…idiot!

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