Drunken Glory: Former Addicts in Minneapolis Are Getting Wasted on the Glory of God
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The summer after my freshman year I dated, sort of, a boy my age who was in a halfway house after a 28-day stint at Hazelden, one of the biggest in-patient rehab places in the country. At the same time I started college at Tulane, he started college in Miami and promptly got himself a coke addiction heavy enough to wind up in a place like that (he had too much money, obviously, and if he’s to be believed — which is doubtful — his dad was a money-launderer for the mob).
He wasn’t supposed to date me — he wasn’t supposed to have any sort of relationship — and he really shouldn’t have been because I was constantly high on my own ill-advised combo of clinical depression, weed, and snorted Adderall that made my snot blue and my head scream. But we did date, sort of, because we were both interested in making bad decisions.
I’ll never forget one evening I joined him and all his “friends” from the halfway house on a big halfway house field trip to what happens to be my family’s favorite sushi restaurant in downtown St. Paul.
They were all so desperate for a high that they “did” wasabi. Ate a tablespoon of it and just sat back. Oh man. OH MAN. Eyes rolled back in their heads. Yes. YES. Then they took another hit.
Note to self, I thought.
Get better. Do right. ‘Cause lord almighty, getting high off of wasabi ain’t the way you wanna be.