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by Naomi Lee

While trekking up and down the Main, you will inevitably see familiar faces: the older hipsters (I use that term lightly) lounging in front of Euro Deli, kids with $1000 low riders cruising around American Apparel, various members of The Stills (buy their CD online) drinking pints at Pistol. These guys are regulars, you see them, but do you really see them? I've seen them, and they're no barrel of monkeys. What I do see is fucked up people on their fucked up drugs...and it's fucking great.

Picture this: Me, sitting at a bar in a little French resto; it's dead, and my bartender friend is making me cosmos up the wazzo, on the house (did I mention that I love her Cosmos?). Beside me sits a strung out elderly black woman with a husky voice, wearing an ugly poncho, but it's Dior, darling, so what do I know? She was bitching about her "gentleman" friend not getting her that Hermes bag that she wanted. Hermes bag? I think one of those things costs more than my yearly salary. Seriously. You don't fucking believe me? And that's just Ebay's price...imagine what it would be retail. Ouch.

Anyway, I got off track. This woman, as expensive as her tastes were, had the mouth of a sailor, smoked like she had no lungs and was strung out on coke, I'd say, 23 hours out of the 24 available. She turned to me, touching my face, exclaiming, "You have no wrinkles! Botox, honey?" "No, " I replied, "not botox, just 24." She furrowed her brow, then pointed at her face "Black don't crack, we just smoke it..." She said this while pretending to take a toke with her long manicured hands. I laughed, not because I was hammered, but because I was scared that she was indeed smoking crack, and I had no idea what to expect next. What she DID do next was stumble to the bathroom to do more coke. She kind of tripped on the way, in her Prada loafers, screaming at the floor for getting in her goddamned way. Don't you just hate that, when the floor gets in your way??

This woman looked classy, but she definitely did not act classy. I had hoped to see a second act, but she never sat still for more than 5 minutes. She kept running to the bathroom and yelling at the floor. I figures that she'd rather hang out in the bathroom than at the bar. Boo on that.

It's people like her that use bathrooms other than for the intention of pissing or shitting. These people have championed long and hard to be the life of the party, or rather the talk of the party.

You can be polemic about it, but druggies make your night interesting. You point and whisper, "Oh my god, that chick's fucked up!" No shit. Get over it. Just sit back and enjoy the show.

Granted, sometimes druggies can freak the fuck out of you, but at least most of the time they don't throw up in a cab or pass out on a park bench and wake up with a homeless man's mouth on their dick. (Yes, that last one is true).

But here's the thing: Whilst making fun of those on drugs, do we (alcoholics) deserve our comeuppance?

I mean, alcohol itself is a drug, albeit, a pretty shitty one at that. Just because we're not on uppers doesn't mean we're not out of it too. Drunks are like druggies but worse. Druggies might steal shit or ruin your sofa but they don't normally dish out unwanted opinions about your that you're just not prepared to hear. Like for instance, a drunk might perchance reveal, "You're a pathetic person who pawns off quotes from movies like it's your own originally thought, but really, you're just average. Please don't talk to me for the rest of the night, you're an absolute bore." Do you really want to hear something like that in the middle of cutting up a dance floor? NO! Especially not while Bizarre Love Triangle is playing!! No one wants that verbal slap in the face. Getting it from a light weight that can't even down 3 Gin and Tonics makes it even harder to bare.

Everyone's bound to get fucked up once in a while. Getting fucked up everyday might be over doing it though. There's no prize for 'most cracked out', or 'best blood shot eyes'. But we love to talk about fucked up people. Why? Because deep down inside all of us, there's a little voice that says "At least I'm not that guy" and you feel better. Then you watch Conan and go to bed. Good night.

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