Dear Cocaine,

Why are you so incredibly scary to me? I wish I were cool enough to like, hang out, and relax while people are passing around plexiglass sheets covered in you. In fact, it almost seems like you'd be the kind of thing I'd be into. Cutting lines is exactly the kind of repetitive, pointless shit I like to fill up my day with. But no, instead, every time you show up at my friends' parties, I seize up like I have an actual gun pointed to my head. I can't hold a normal conversation with someone who is rubbing your residue on their gums, as all my energy is directed towards not looking like I'm about to crap myself. Oh my God and seriously, if someone knocks on the door while all this is going on OH MY GOD that is the end of me.

Go back to Columbia,

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