Back when I used to wait tables at a popular family-oriented chain resturuant I would be smacked out of my gord. A female co-worker and I had a ritual of going into the bathroom together, shooting up, then bring out those pre-fab meals to the happy middleclass families with blood dribbling down our arms, and those glazed over pinpoint opiate eyes.
I used to have my man come straight to the resturuant and drop off as many bundles as I could afford out of my current tip money/rinse/repeat. My coworker and I probably went through atleast 3 bundles daily in that cramped, piss-stained employee bathroom. I was a good worker when I was all smacked up, though. My manager actually thought I was doing speed, by the way I was acting. He asked me what we were doing in there together, with a slight sly smile, but pretty much turned a blind eye to it. Everyone in that resturuant was on something.
We weren't allowed to wear longsleeve shirts, so it was kinda tricky hiding those pinprick tracks. I alternated my spots every shot and used cover-up. You could never really notice my tracks. My girl, though.. Jesus, just thinking about her uneven, bluish-purple-red bruised, gnarly-meated arms make me shiver (She used to shoot a crap load of coke, and had very bad shooting habits/hygeine)... Just think how our customers felt seeing those arms carying their meals!