Your Drug Dealer’s Retirement Letter

Drug Sale,Pusher brings drugs to the car window to make his sale.

Dear Consumer,

I’m penning you this letter to inform all of you of my retirement from distributing drugs. It was at my second court-mandated therapy session that I realized that a relationship should be 50/50, and quite frankly, you guys have expected too much from me for too long. What started off as a side hustle of selling individual carts to my little brother’s friends in an Arby’s parking lot has become a nightmare that I can no longer endure. Have I enjoyed stopping at red-lights, pulling out $1200 cash, and recording myself mumbling to Trippie Redd in my used 2006 BMW 3 Series? Sure. But nothing is worth the shit you guys put me through on a weekly basis.

To the guys…how is it I’m only your boy when four of us are packed together in a bathroom stall? Did any of you even listen to my latest SoundCloud mixtape you told me you would all “100% peep?” Often, with you guys it just feels like it’s, “how’s the g?” not, “how IS the g?” When I told you all to longer send snowflake emojis on Venmo, none of you even bothered to listen. When I accepted your pleas to pay the difference on Ca$happ because your Dad only sends you money every two-weeks, almost none of you came through. When the Kappa Sigs needed their molly within the hour of their departure for Bonnaroo, who was there wearing Off-White head to toe, tending to you guys while Snapchatting his seventeen-year-old sidepiece? ME. I’ve been with you guys through every breakup, every Xanax and Lil Peep purge, and all the late-night blow pickups, and all I’ve gotten is a Snapchat list with names of faces I can’t place.

And to the girls…you wouldn’t have gotten that Manscaped sponsorship without my weight-loss methods. I’m always left on open until YOU need something. All I’ve ever wanted was a shorty I could spoil with a Birkin bag, and all I got was occasional roadhead from exiled sorority girls addicted to my Grade A Columbian goods. How much work does a guy need to put on his car to get a text back? Do you even fucking hear how sick my engine purrs? Do you know how heartbreaking it is when you don’t even know my name and my entire exists to you is Plug

So I’m done. I hope with time and this new Playboi Carti album, my wounds can heal…but until then, you will no longer see Snapchat stories of my filthy hands caressing a giant bag of weed like it’s a deluxe Costco bag of Pirate Booty.

Sincerely Yours,

Your Drug Dealer 

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