20/12/05 - YET ANOTHER HORSE TRIAL THAT WENT BY IN A HAZE
Lapsing is so painful. Now I wish I hadn't given in
and - you guessed it, Diary - gone to see Baggsy.
I told him what was going on for me and he offered to hit me up and even offered me some heroin as well (to really boost the confidence).
I got a generous pipeload sizzling - the crystals were insanely fine-cut and barely needed encouragement to burn smooth and fast. It was probably about 3 points but after 8 days amphetamine-free it was like a smack in the head and I was back-up-there and happy as larry. So happy I sat down with Baggsy and had a big fucking rah-rah with him, and was so tweaked I actually understood the old loon. Had a bit of a heart-to-heart.
He had a mushroom overdose apparently, back in the 70's, and somehow never came right so he spent years in a mental hospital. Diagnosed schizophrenic, put on anti-psychs and released, he then became a professional government-supported headcase who made a (fair) bit on the side selling drugs.
I had a taste of the heroin he was offering but it was that nasty black tar shit (the rush was beautiful but fluffing round with all those filters and trying to actually turn the tar into liquid on the spoon, while not losing any of what I'd paid for with my shaking methhead hands made me remember why I prefer buying skag off the Horsemen, since they sell it already drawn up into the barrels!)
Baggsy doesn't even do heroin himself - hell, he says, why waste money on skag when there's things like meth? He does sell it though.
So we sit there swapping drug history, then Joe knocks.
He was there to drop off the meth from the lab and he had plenty. Because I hadn't bummed drugs from him and all our previous debts were cleared he happily gave me a gram and even said I could have it for free.
'Merry Christmas' he said. Thank you Joe.
He gave Baggsy his, like, kilos of meth then grabbed out of his backpack, a spoon, 3 fits, and a syringe, as well as a 10ml container of sterile water, scooped about half a teaspoon of the crystal out of the bag, dumped it on the spoon and mixed it with the water, drawing it up into the syringe, passing us each a fit and grabbing the belt that was holding up his jeans to use as a tourniquet, and putting a third of the mixture up his arm. We each took a turn.
This was some strong shit, or maybe again it was my sudden lack of tolerance. I realised I had to head home before Mum noticed I'd gone, which was sad because I wanted to catch up on Joe but he walked me home anyway and I didn't cause any suspicion until I refused dinner.
When Mum and Liam went to bed I went and made a quick makeshift pipe out of a lightbulb (where the fuck is my pipe?) and spent the rest of the night smoking that gram.
In the morning I was tweaking so hard (wow, tolerance drops fast after detox) and I got Maverick dollied up and perky for the event.
My dressage judge was Celia, who of course knew I was tweaking but would be easily as much of a tweaker as I am - she's a pretty tough judge though. I remember that from when she taught me at Te Atatu Pony Club. Us tweakers have an eye for detail.
When I'm on P my dresage sucks. I get all impatient and Maverick feels it too. He's so sensitive to my moods - and he loves my P mood because it means he usually gets to jump. We got the highest dressage score today - ie. the lowest place after the first crucial phase.
Our show-jumping round was flawless - fast and clean. Unfortunately Lauren didn't see it. She was in the ring next to me in the dressage however and hissed 'fuck you, junkie' as we passed each other, with which I replied 'eat shit and die'. I have a feeling her dressage was flawless. Her show-jumping round certainly was. Someone else schools her horse, I'm sure of it.
Our cross-country round was perfect. I opted for all the short-cuts and got no time faults. Maverick was a handful but jumped without hesitation and even jumped an intermediate practise cross-country jump twice. I could tell he loved it and I loved it too.
It was a shame I gave into my stupid addiction. I could have done that day without P. Now I'm in horrible old methamphetamine comedown mode and I'm achey and miserable and fiending for a hit. I've slept all day today and now I'm feeling too agitated and craving P too much to sleep.
Time to hit up Joe and score some life-giving heroin - this time pre-barreled from the Horsemen. Takeaways, I call the stuff. Hell I trust the Horsemen - I did cook for them and probably will again. They won't fuck me over by giving me shit skag that's going to kill off their best little white working woman...and if they do, who bloody cares?
NB. (btw some of these r fake names/aliases)
BAGGSY - my ex-dealer; dealt P/H/psychedelics on a large scale; also a terrible P addict
HORSEMEN - a local gang of Islanders that mainly deal in drugs/weapons/stolen property
JOE - a son of a prominent gang member and was a gd mate tho i havnt seen him in yrs
LIAM - my 23yo brother (wud hav bn 19 in this entry), the one who supposedly does 'all the right things' (my parents rnt aware how much he luvs MDMA)
MAVERICK - my show-jumper, tho he started off doing eventing, or 'horse trials', which he and i used to compete in while i was fried...the grey Arabian horse in my avatar
CELIA - my first dressage instructor - a methhead whos still after me for apparently stealing her pipe
LAUREN - my major nemesis at horse trials; a rich kid whod had perfect ponies bought for her from age 10, and managed to get me kicked out of Mangere Pony Club for mentioning how I enjoyed smoking pot after a long day, to a haughty woman on the committee (her horse, Pythagoras, isnt half as good a jumper as Maverick, even tho he was taught by pros, Mav was just taught by me...he has natural talent - shit hed bn broken in for a yr or so in that pic in the avatar and check the height/width of that jump...)
Lapsing is so painful. Now I wish I hadn't given in
and - you guessed it, Diary - gone to see Baggsy.
I told him what was going on for me and he offered to hit me up and even offered me some heroin as well (to really boost the confidence).
I got a generous pipeload sizzling - the crystals were insanely fine-cut and barely needed encouragement to burn smooth and fast. It was probably about 3 points but after 8 days amphetamine-free it was like a smack in the head and I was back-up-there and happy as larry. So happy I sat down with Baggsy and had a big fucking rah-rah with him, and was so tweaked I actually understood the old loon. Had a bit of a heart-to-heart.
He had a mushroom overdose apparently, back in the 70's, and somehow never came right so he spent years in a mental hospital. Diagnosed schizophrenic, put on anti-psychs and released, he then became a professional government-supported headcase who made a (fair) bit on the side selling drugs.
I had a taste of the heroin he was offering but it was that nasty black tar shit (the rush was beautiful but fluffing round with all those filters and trying to actually turn the tar into liquid on the spoon, while not losing any of what I'd paid for with my shaking methhead hands made me remember why I prefer buying skag off the Horsemen, since they sell it already drawn up into the barrels!)
Baggsy doesn't even do heroin himself - hell, he says, why waste money on skag when there's things like meth? He does sell it though.
So we sit there swapping drug history, then Joe knocks.
He was there to drop off the meth from the lab and he had plenty. Because I hadn't bummed drugs from him and all our previous debts were cleared he happily gave me a gram and even said I could have it for free.
'Merry Christmas' he said. Thank you Joe.
He gave Baggsy his, like, kilos of meth then grabbed out of his backpack, a spoon, 3 fits, and a syringe, as well as a 10ml container of sterile water, scooped about half a teaspoon of the crystal out of the bag, dumped it on the spoon and mixed it with the water, drawing it up into the syringe, passing us each a fit and grabbing the belt that was holding up his jeans to use as a tourniquet, and putting a third of the mixture up his arm. We each took a turn.
This was some strong shit, or maybe again it was my sudden lack of tolerance. I realised I had to head home before Mum noticed I'd gone, which was sad because I wanted to catch up on Joe but he walked me home anyway and I didn't cause any suspicion until I refused dinner.
When Mum and Liam went to bed I went and made a quick makeshift pipe out of a lightbulb (where the fuck is my pipe?) and spent the rest of the night smoking that gram.
In the morning I was tweaking so hard (wow, tolerance drops fast after detox) and I got Maverick dollied up and perky for the event.
My dressage judge was Celia, who of course knew I was tweaking but would be easily as much of a tweaker as I am - she's a pretty tough judge though. I remember that from when she taught me at Te Atatu Pony Club. Us tweakers have an eye for detail.
When I'm on P my dresage sucks. I get all impatient and Maverick feels it too. He's so sensitive to my moods - and he loves my P mood because it means he usually gets to jump. We got the highest dressage score today - ie. the lowest place after the first crucial phase.
Our show-jumping round was flawless - fast and clean. Unfortunately Lauren didn't see it. She was in the ring next to me in the dressage however and hissed 'fuck you, junkie' as we passed each other, with which I replied 'eat shit and die'. I have a feeling her dressage was flawless. Her show-jumping round certainly was. Someone else schools her horse, I'm sure of it.
Our cross-country round was perfect. I opted for all the short-cuts and got no time faults. Maverick was a handful but jumped without hesitation and even jumped an intermediate practise cross-country jump twice. I could tell he loved it and I loved it too.
It was a shame I gave into my stupid addiction. I could have done that day without P. Now I'm in horrible old methamphetamine comedown mode and I'm achey and miserable and fiending for a hit. I've slept all day today and now I'm feeling too agitated and craving P too much to sleep.
Time to hit up Joe and score some life-giving heroin - this time pre-barreled from the Horsemen. Takeaways, I call the stuff. Hell I trust the Horsemen - I did cook for them and probably will again. They won't fuck me over by giving me shit skag that's going to kill off their best little white working woman...and if they do, who bloody cares?
NB. (btw some of these r fake names/aliases)
BAGGSY - my ex-dealer; dealt P/H/psychedelics on a large scale; also a terrible P addict
HORSEMEN - a local gang of Islanders that mainly deal in drugs/weapons/stolen property
JOE - a son of a prominent gang member and was a gd mate tho i havnt seen him in yrs
LIAM - my 23yo brother (wud hav bn 19 in this entry), the one who supposedly does 'all the right things' (my parents rnt aware how much he luvs MDMA)
MAVERICK - my show-jumper, tho he started off doing eventing, or 'horse trials', which he and i used to compete in while i was fried...the grey Arabian horse in my avatar
CELIA - my first dressage instructor - a methhead whos still after me for apparently stealing her pipe
LAUREN - my major nemesis at horse trials; a rich kid whod had perfect ponies bought for her from age 10, and managed to get me kicked out of Mangere Pony Club for mentioning how I enjoyed smoking pot after a long day, to a haughty woman on the committee (her horse, Pythagoras, isnt half as good a jumper as Maverick, even tho he was taught by pros, Mav was just taught by me...he has natural talent - shit hed bn broken in for a yr or so in that pic in the avatar and check the height/width of that jump...)