I had a really close friend in high school, his name was Randall. We hung out together all the time, skipped school together, I was with him the day Elvis died, he was like a brother. I drank my first beer at Randall's house, and I think I may have smoked my first joint with him as well. The guy was cooler than cool, funnier than funny, and one of the most popular in our class. After graduation, we lost track of each other for a while. It would be about 20 years before I saw him again. He didn't look the same at all, very frail and skinny, eyes were sunk back in his head, and he just didn't look healthy. We talked about the old times, although he had simply forgotten most of them, and as our conversation progressed, I realized why. Randall had developed a bit of a drug habit. At the time, he was taking pills... don't ask what kind, I can't recall, but he was quite a pill head. I remember when I left, I almost cried, thinking of how he had messed up his life so badly with pills... but the worst was yet to come.
Jump ahead another 12 years, my phone rings in the middle of the night, it's Randall. He is in jail and needs me to come bail him out, he didn't have anyone else to call. So, I go get him out of jail, and bring him back to my house. He tells me the story of how he got into trouble with these guys trying to rip him off, he was trying to buy some crystal meth. We had a really long talk, and I convinced him to check into rehab and get some help. He promised he would do that, but he just wanted to sleep for a while. I fixed the guest room for him, and put him to bed. Again that night, I cried as I went to sleep, thinking about how fucked up his life had become.
I woke the next morning to find Randall gone, along with several of my guns and some collector coins I kept in a drawer of the guest room. I couldn't believe he had ripped me off, of all people... it absolutely floored me. Two days later, his sister called me, they found Randall in an alley dead from drug overdose. Everyday of my life, I think about Randall, and wonder what I could have done differently to save him. I guess there was nothing I could have done, short of taking him straight to rehab that night, before he went to bed.
I wanted to share this story with the people on this forum, so that you understand why it bothers me to have someone accusing me of being addicted to crystal meth. I have pretty thick skin, I can take all the ribbing and joking about 1/3, or being a redneck...or whatever... doesn't bother me a bit. The meth thing is very personal, and it hits home. Watermark, I know you won't stop, because you realize it bothers me, so you will keep picking and trying to irritate me with it. But, it doesn't really irritate me, it hurts me. It brings back a lot of memories, and opens the wounds all over again. I don't know if you have the capacity to understand that, or if you even really care. I just thought you'd like to know why it bothers me so much.
