Citation: jay t. "Achieving the Impossible: An Experience with Crack & Opium (exp8355)". Erowid.org. Aug 17, 2004. erowid.org/exp/8355
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I've always been a fan of uppers, with the tendency to get too easily carried away and occasionally binge for days on end. Only in the last year have I come to grips with my many addictions, including marijuana, alcohol, opiates, benzodiazepenes, amphetamines and of course cocaine. I was doing well for a few months, but very recently I've relapsed on uppers. That's very bad news for someone with a personality as addictive as mine, because many addictions, no matter how long repressed, start up right where you were when you left off. So according to this rule, on the night I relapsed I was destined to do about 3.5 grams of cocaine, smoked or sniffed. To my relief and bewilderment, my prediction couldn't have been more wrong.
It was a typical summer evening; cool, clear, and tranquil. I was on my way to a concert with a good buddy of mine, a case of beer on ice in the back seat. It was going to be a fun night. To tell you the truth, we didn't even plan on going inside; we elected to party in the parking lot all night instead. We walked around drinking and observing the predominantly 'hippie' crowd; huge, ragged pants, hemp adornments with bulky glass beads, long and unwashed clumps of hair that they ignorantly refer to as 'dreddies,' or dreadlocks. Unfortunately most of these people were well-off, money-conscious suburbanites simply masquerading as carefree and generous souls. My friend and I began looking for drugs, and too easily found them. Actually they found us. Within minutes I had scored a gram of beautiful hash, some stinky opium (most likely synthetic), 1/8 oz. of fine Vermont sinsemilla, and -most importantly- a gram of nice cocaine.
The coke looked good, at least for this region; it consisted of about a dozen small rocks, whick were fairly hard and seemed gritty and oily. It had a faint yellowish tint, meaning at least from my experience that it was cut by less idiots and may possibly yield some good rocks for smoking. A few weeks earlier, my friend had told me that he was sick of the garbage coke that people were giving him (mostly at parties) and he wanted to smoke crack. He chose me as his instructor because of my vast experience with the product, and he told me that my stories of 'rocket ship' highs and boundless, godlike energy sounded too good to be true. So I was going to prove him wrong. He also stated that i would never make the cocaine last more than a night, which I believed. So far i hadn't done it with amounts that made a gram look like a 'key bump,' so why was tonight going to be any different? The gram, though it weighed out fine, really was looking miniscule.
We left the tie-dyed masses and returned to my house in my car, both fairly drunk by now. It was about 2 am and we were both dying to crack open the coke and get cooking. Sitting in my basement, illuminated only by candles, excitement seemed to rush buzz around me like a static charge. My friend just sat there, watching intently as i began the sacred ritual of cooking up the hits. I opened one of the two half grams and announced that the other half was going away now, and would be back tomorrow night. My friend just looked at me in snide disbelief and told me it wouldn't happen. I flattened the open bag and let about 4 rocks and some powder fall onto the table. He watched me with keen interest as I crushed the rocks with a bottle cap and then worked them into 6 separate piles. I had already gathered my tool kit, which consisted of a spoon, a tiny bit of baking soda, and a glass of water. I put a drop of water on the spoon and heated it briefly, after which I added one of the small piles on the table before me.
We hadn't spoken for a good five minutes, the suspense rendering us silent. I watched as the cocaine fell into the water and sunk to the bottom, clouding the water. I then proceeded to heat it until about half of the water dissolved, and quickly added a tiny sprinkle of baking soda. The concoction bubbled up and seemed to be mixed, although I've always been told that coke and water don't mix. I heated it slowly, careful not to burn any of it off. I noticed that it had been cut with a type of sugar, because of the caramel odor and slight browning of the edges of the rock I was making. My heart fell because I was afraid it wouldn't cook right, like many other times the sugar had foiled my plans. But it wasn't a big cut, so I was delighted as the mixture made a loud pop, separating itself from the spoon, and crystallized into a brittle, clear-yellow puddle. I immediately scraped it out with a penny, it being gummy from the remaining sugar, and i waited for it to harden. I knew I'd done it right because my product was about 1/4 the size of the rock I'd started with, meaning many other cuts had boiled off or evaporated.
Picking the rock off the penny, I put it in my screen-pipe and handed the bowl to my friend. I was rewarded with a familiar sizzle as I watched the rock disappear, leaving a tiny bit of black residue from the sugar. The bulk of it had evaporated and entered his lungs, and he sat back on the couch with a slow nod. His face went from smiling to wonder as he exhaled and the hit fully entered his bloodstream. His eyes closed and his arms went limp. All he could muster was one monosyllabic groan, lasting about 3 seconds. I was strangely calm and hadn't even begun cooking my own rock yet, despite his obvious euphoria. Judging by all of my past experiences, I should have finished the gram already and been on the way to my dealer with another 50 bucks. I started on my own rock, listening to him describe how much better this was than any other method of using coke and how stupid are people who snort it? That is one subject I agree on; snorting coke is a waste and gets me less jammed.
When I had finished making my hit I threw it in the pipe and smoked. Blood rushed to my ears, my veins were pulsing with cocaine, I could feel it inside of me; my lips, teeth, mouth, throat and lungs were all numb, sensationless, and the rocket ship I was tied to took off; I was soaring up, up, and up. Eventually I could feel the rocket slow down and stop, at which point I could feel myself lazily descending back down to earth like a feather. I looked at the clock; 25 minutes had passed. That's extremely good for cocaine, let alone crack. By now my friend wanted another hit, so I prepared it and gave it to him. I then proceeded to give him two more in a row, sacrificing one of my hits so he could better enjoy his first time smoking real coke. I took the last one and immediately licked the spoon clean, feeling the cocaine burning through the thin membrane of my tongue and entering my bloodstream as well. I then packed up the kit and we proceeded to smoke some opium to bring us down more peacefully.
The total elapsed time was about an hour; it was 3 am and all I could think about was sleep. Shockingly I didn't even think about the other half gram until the next day, and even then I only smoked half of it. It was gone the day after, having lasted arguably 3 days; and I didn't once do it alone. I don't know how I did it or if I could ever do it again, but i successfully made a single gram last for days- and I'm no lightweight. All I did was show myself the cold truth; I am a drug addict, and my mind has to be altered every waking moment of my life. To use all of my coke in one night would cause a need for more all too soon, whereas if i could stretch it out for a few days I'd make it to my next paycheck with little or no discomfort. I was also able to make the opium last the same amound of time and the hash and pot 5 days, all three of which are records for me. Have I just matured in my addictions, or am I finally kicking them on my own accord? I guess only time will tell. For now I'll just have to pride myself as a very will-powered crackhead.
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