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A Letter From Your Drug Dealer

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It’s 11:45 PM on a Thursday night. Your boy Merrick down the hall of the fraternity house is out of what you need. The friend of the kid who sits behind you in Accounting is dry, too. Fuck. Approaching a moment of total despair, you scroll through your text messages and see a conversation with someone whose number you didn’t save. It’s me. You can’t exactly remember where we met or what my name is, but I sold you drugs once. You wouldn’t normally hit me up, but it’s worth a shot. You send me a text.

“Yo”

Let me start by saying that I am by no means an upstanding member of society. I contribute almost nothing to the world. I will sell drugs to anybody. I’ll sell drugs to your fucking grandma if she’s got cash. You might find yourself questioning why it is I do what I do. Does he have an actual job? Does he go to this school? It doesn’t matter. For all intents and purposes, I am a complete piece of shit. I do, however, live by some guidelines.

First and foremost, I am not your friend. I do not want to be your friend. I do not want to come over and play 2k with you and listen to your roommate talk about how some chick tried to stick a finger in his ass last night. If you decide it’s a good idea to introduce me to your friends at the bar, I will make a point to not remember their names on purpose. I do not care what you are doing later that night unless it involves you putting more of your parents’ money into my hand. Do not ask me where I live. Do not ask if I caught the game last night. I don’t want to be around you longer than the intended transaction has to take.

Before you ask, I’d like to clear something up. I do not fucking accept Venmo. I don’t care if your ass fell off, pick it up and walk down to the ATM. I also don’t work on a barter system. This is not the Oregon Trail and I certainly will not haggle with you over prices. Some of you think that is an acceptable thing to do. I assure you it isn’t. You’re going to ask me for a discount, and then I’m going to explain to you that you’re paying “market price” and you’re going to pay it. That’s how this works. You might catch me on a good day where I’m willing to negotiate, but 95% of the time I charge what I charge and you pay what you pay.

We might be the garbage people of society, constantly ducking the cops and making 5 minute stops at houses where they have guns on the table and pitbulls in the yard. We might be cool people in real life and assholes during business hours. All we’re asking for is a break when we’re twenty minutes late. Drug dealers have a lot going on in our lives, too. Is it too much to ask for some fucking decency?

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