Tomorrow is Bacchanal. Tomorrow, a sharply divided community fuses as an alloy—elementally diverse, but stronger for it. Tomorrow, a crowd of souls is tethered, if only for a few hours, to transcendent vibrations, to the organized chaos of booming music. Tomorrow, our individual anxieties and stresses yield to crystallized collective joy. Tomorrow, Columbia becomes the place you dreamed it would be. Or maybe, just maybe, it was all along.
These kinds of goofy, bullshit thoughts are possible only with copious drug use. And now that our own Morningside Heisenberg has been screwed by the system, I won't stand idly by and allow my fellow students' artificial dopamine drip to dry up. I can't bear to see the best minds of my generation destroyed by sobriety. That's why I'm going to start selling a ton of drugs out of my dorm room. Because I care.
Well, sort of. I care that you buy drugs from me. And now that I'm your only option, you will. Demand for my wares is inflexible. And unlike a certain campus dealer, I don't care about how much fun you have. I don't care about purity. I don't care about you harming yourself. Normally, somebody like me wouldn't get much business on this campus. So, I want to give a huge thanks to the NYPD for giving me this opportunity to shine.
On Saturday, enjoy your substance of choice and try not to think about the fact that the guy who gave it to you, one of your peers, is likely going through the worst time of his life. After that, hit me up for weed, molly, mushrooms, acid, yayo, spice, smack, xanny bars, bath salts, krokodil, opium, quaaludes, Diana pizza, and toilet wine. Admittedly, I don't have many of these goodies right now, but they can all be acquired or manufactured pretty easily. My Woodbridge suite is spacious enough for at least a miniature meth lab. Plus, it's right next to St. A's, so no one is going to question the burnt coke smell.
If I've piqued your interest, here's how to get in touch with me. Either contact my cell phone, send me a Facebook message, tweet me, or write a Letter to the Editor specifying your order (I'm working on Seamless integration but don't hold your breath). Then, we'll arrange to meet at my suite and I'll very carefully measure out how much you owe me, give you a handful of whatever, and send you on your merry way. I do samples, but don't be a jerk about it. This isn't Cold Stone Creamery.
Important note: Please be discreet about the whole enterprise. I don't want anyone finding out. I'd certainly hate for my name to end up in Columbia College Today or some other widely read campus publication. Do feel free to spread the word amongst your friends—I'm obviously trying to build a network here—but only your cool friends. And don't call me a "drug dealer." Labels only lead to separation. That's why I won't label or separate any of the drugs I deal.
And that's just one of many ways I'm better than the average Jay and Silent Bob. Many street merchants cut their product with dangerous filler and household cleaners (something I would never even think of doing right away). Even government-sanctioned dealers of the most destructive drug of all, alcohol, often dilute it with unnecessary ingredients and artificial flavors. To my under-21 clientele, I promise this: All of the alcohol I have for sale is 100 percent pure, 200 proof. The only thing I'll cut my product with is love. And crushed up Adderall—we've all got papers to write.
As I mentioned before, my decision to sling substances at an Ivy League university isn't motivated solely by altruism and goodwill. Yet some would have you believe that I'm some immoral opportunist because I want to meet an existing demand. Or that I'll steal business from local NYC street dealers who survive on the money they make, whereas I'm simply generating disposable income for myself. I mean, I might not be the most scrupulous character on campus, but it's not like I'm going into finance or anything sociopathic like that.
Will the money from my Pusha T-type operation be nice? Sure. But I'm getting into the game for so much more than that. I want to know that I'm having a meaningful impact on people's lives. That's why, quite frankly, I'm never too jazzed about a weed sale; at most it'll result in someone really getting Aphex Twin. Coke, meth, and synthetics though? That's my bread, butter, and jam. So if you see someone standing naked on a rooftop, screaming at the top of their lungs, infected facial scabs oozing with pus, just know that I gave them the courage to spread their wings and believe they could fly.
Ziyad Abdelfattah is a Columbia College senior majoring in political science and music. He is a former poet laureate of the CUMB. Ziyad's Cry for Attention runs alternate Fridays. He can be found on Twitter @Ziyadisme.
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