the hard stuff

I never thought I would be one of those people. I mean, sure, I've experimented from time to time. I tried it, because everyone else was doing it and I wanted to fit in. Surely if all these other people like it, there must be something wrong with me. Now and then, I'd give it an honest shot, but it never seemed to work out for me. And I was fine with that.

Then one day, I met a guy who was into it. Not the hard stuff, though. It was cut with something, doctored up enough to be palatable. The first time he gave it to me, I liked it a lot. Then we tried it a couple more times, and before I knew it I was hooked. What had happened to me?

It runs in my family, you could say. My grandparents liked it. My dad has been into it for as long as I can remember, and he even managed to get my mom on board eventually. I was torn growing up about whether I wanted to be like them. Every so often, I'd steal some from their stash and try it myself, but I rarely finished what I took. The taste was just too horrible, and it lingered in my throat. How could people like this stuff?

In college, everyone around me was into it. There were places people would meet up just to hang out and do it -- professors, students, everyone. There is a well-documented history of writers abusing it to complete their work. Was I a bad writer if I couldn't get on board with this? I never really understood what it was they liked about it...it couldn't be the taste, and I never stuck with it long enough to figure out the high.

Once this pusher got me in the habit, though, I found myself seeking it out on my own. It was never as good as what he had, but I improvised and experimented...chasing the dragon, I think it's called. I found myself doing it at work, just to make it through the day. I knew I was in real trouble when I started bringing it home with me. Now I just consider it a part of life, the daily routine. It's just something I do. I never meant for it to happen or whatever. But somehow, I became a coffee drinker.