Cocaine is like, whatever, sex sex sex. Hotel sex, public bathroom sex, no-one-can-come-but-you-fuck-forever sex. Heroin is a slow deep wet kiss with your own image without bothering to get out of the chair to look in the mirror. A guy I knew described acid as having every drawer and closet door inside you spring open at once. Pot is unpredictable, sometimes an ecstatic lift in communion to song, other times the brain eating itself in an edgy paranoid panic. Booze is a sloppy, ugly, face-slackening slide toward the grave or at least the gutter, sinking into the street’s shallow pit, shit streaming by you, oblivious. Pills, a synthetic, efficient bubble, either of energy or apathy or both. And men, they turn you into a vessel, rowing farther away with every stroke.
But the Leader, he cleans my hair with his feet.
