This October marked 2 years since Annalise Rossi accidentally overdosed on what she thought was an oxycodone. Since her death, the "dirty thirties" have taken over the pharmaceutical scene born in the 90's, and a culture of rabid, desperate addicts has been unleashed in to Arizona. I have had limited interaction with this new sector of the underground world where I reign. I think I have had 3 girls at the playhouse, none of them lasted a week because I couldn't remove them from the bathroom. The last one set the record at an impressive 36 hours locked in there. She let two bookings just sit upstairs until I went up there and accommodated them myself. Upon her exit, she was sneaking out the door with six duffel bags which startled my friend Marc who was in the living room playing piano. She only arrived with two. I came downstairs, directed her to the second bedroom I use for the girls to rest and begin peeling thru her stuff. I guess I should say my stuff. When I asked her what she was doing with six duffel bags filled with my makeup, jewelry, clothes and toiletries-she looked at me dead behind the eyes and told me she had to finish getting ready in the car. Bitch, you have been "getting ready" for 36 hours, what is it exactly you are "getting ready" for because it for damn sure isn't to take an appointment. Not so quick at the draw these counterfeit connesuiers are. Connesuiers. That's right. These addicts boast a sophisticated palette for the pill that trails down their aluminum foil tray. (I think I just figured out the lack of wit) They say that the creme de la creme of dirty thirties smells like burnt popcorn. The more burned the better. They aren't gassing me either the fuckers really do smell just like burnt popcorn. I found this out about a year ago when my first pill head turned and burned in less than 48 hours. In that time, she managed to convince me to invest in a supply for her to manage so I could oversee her overuse I guess. Anyways, one of my brokers stopped by with several collections of these pills. At the time, being the novice only having an affinity for pills actually made by pharmaceutical companies, I made the poor judgement call of choosing the dark blue ones. This wouldn't do, as this junkie had her standards, and she apathetically walked away from a night with an earning potential of $2k and I never saw her again. I have openly done the breakup dance with drugs, namely opiates, for 20 years and I have to share with you this is one pain killer that has not trapped me in to a loveless romance. Almost everyday, someone is sharing a horror story with me that has fentynol as the starring role and I wonder how I so deftly escaped its clutches. I'd be a fool if I told you that I had overcome opiate addiction and had been relinquished of the nagging itch to cover myself up with the proverbial heavy fuzzy blanket the poppy plant offers. But this, this is different. It's like I'm immune. And I have to wonder, if it's not my dear sweet friend in the sky looking after me.
Rest In Peace