Cocaine Cinderella

 “This is my last hoorah,” I said to a few different friends in between lines of blow while at a hotel in Chelsea, a hotel in Williamsburg, a club in the Lower East Side, while standing in a bodega buying White Claw in Bushwick, sitting in Prospect Park doing whippets and smoking weed, buying a pack of American Spirits in a location I cannot name because I was too high on cocaine to pay attention to anything except how fucking on top of the world I felt. I said it to my friend after the shrooms I took on a hot day in Fort Greene park led to heat exhaustion and psychedelic panic and confusion. I even said it to my drug dealer when he asked if I wanted to buy 6gs instead of an 8ball. I said it to a friend who lives in Portland who called me cocaine cinderella, waiting for the time when I finally ran out of drugs and got sober again. Indeed, I was counting down the moments until my final ball. The final ball never came.

The clock never strikes midnight on a binge. Time freezes, friends seem everlasting, music seems to go on forever and ever and ever and ever, dealers are out and about looking to sell me more. No one looks at the clock in the club and thinks “time is running out.” The only reason anyone checks the time at a party in NYC is to see when they need to leave to go to the next party.

The lack of time sensitivity completely goes against one of my 10 commandments of partying. My favorite part of the night when I was sober and still going out dancing was when I was ready to call it a night. I looked at the disco ball, at the people around me, at the new friends I made that I wouldn’t speak to again until we saw each other at the next party, and I remember always being grateful that they were going to be immortalized in that club. What a beautiful thing to live and die with the music. What a revelation, an act of brash rebellion, to say fuck the time, fuck the rules, fuck being tactful and classy. I would look at all those gorgeous nightlife seekers before leaving and there were times when I would cry out of pure, childlike joy, taking in one last glance at the beauty of a night out. 

Everyone was so shimmery, so purely themselves. I never felt envious that they could keep going and going and going. I cherished being one of the ones who knew when I hit my limit and left before my behavior started going against my values. I was so proud of myself for knowing exactly when I had gotten what I needed out of the party and that if I stayed any longer I’d sour my perception of techno and house music. I’d grow grumpy and tired and rude and upset. I’d ruin the vibes. I loved being a part of a crowd that kept going until the world ended, even if I couldn’t reach the end of time with them, we all shared the same sense of freedom. 

I was no longer free in the summer of 2024. I was chained to cocaine. I made myself feel better by trying to cling to my old values, the ones that told me when to call it quits. It made me feel good to be able to say something as silly as “this is my last hoorah,” and think that I meant it. Everyone I said that statement to said “I’m proud of you, Lizzy.” Even my dealer said that. I think they were all relieved that I was still myself, that I was still in control. I think they all knew I had become someone I wasn’t too fond of, someone I would look back on with regret that I was such close friends with that cocaine cinderella version of Lizzy. What they did not know, and I really wish that they did, was that I was fooling them as well as myself. 

That Last Hoorah began in late May and did not end until late September. Even after I alienated good friends of mine, even after my friends stopped inviting me out, even when I didn’t have any fucking money and had to suck dick for blow, even when I walked around in broad daylight in a thong and bikini top because I was so fucking sweaty from the drugs I couldn’t stand to wear actual clothing, even when I trashed hotel room after hotel room, ordering bottle after bottle of Dom Perignon from room service, doing lines off every glass surface in the room, even after I started doing blow cut with meth, even after countless nights laying in a bed full of empty White Claw and coke dust and ketamine holes that dropped me into traumatic moments. Even when my friend told me over and over and over again to stop doing drugs, I kept waiting for the clock to turn midnight. I kept hoping the next bag would bring me closer to myself. I kept thinking that as long as I kept going, as long as I did more, I’d never have to die. I could become one of the ones who is immortalized in the club. I could be a legend. I could be free. Unfortunately, the only “freedom” I was achieving cost 300 bucks and looked like a bag of powder I’d snort in an hour.

The only hit of cocaine that I like is the first line of the day. That drip, the dilated eyes, the feeling that I could probably conquer the world if I set my mind to it, and I believed I had all the focus in the world to do so. Every line after that is just chasing the dragon. That dragon can’t be tamed. I knew this, I always knew that. I’ve been chasing highs since I was 14, for fucks sake. There’s something about being absolutely delusional about my drug use that haunts me. 

After the 1st hit comes one more, because now that 5 minutes has passed the high has dulled. After the second hit I’m feeling even more euphoric than I did after the first. Time to do more. Another one after that because that third line didn’t beam me up the way the other ones did. Wait, now I’m not really able to keep track of my thoughts. Fuck. Another line will set me straight. Hold up, if I do Molly now I’d be able to feel even more euphoric and the coke will level out the problems I have with concentration. Then I’ll be the creative genius of my dreams. Hold the phone! Someone has ketamine. Now I’ll be puking out every bad deed I’ve ever done. OMFG, what if I had a couple drinks? That’ll set me right from the coke jitters. Ummm.. did you forget to take your meds? A random stranger asks me at a party. I wasn’t embarrassed. Let’s do lines together, I said with wide eyes and a vocal tone that was aggressive and outlandish. I looked really spooky, like someone who was on PCP. No thanks, he said with a dirty look before walking away.

I kept going and going and going and doing more and more and more, no matter how many people told me I need to get it together. No matter how many times I died from the coke. I knew I’d come back. I did come back, I’m so fucking back right now. But I didn’t get here because of the blow.

I know now the last hoorah does not exist. The last hoorah ends in the morgue. I’ve been living dirty and feeling fine about it. That’s not the Lizzy everyone, including myself, loves. 

Good girls go to heaven and bad girls go everywhere. I found a hat that said that in my favorite store in the East Village. It lives on the dresser of my moms house in Texas where I moved to get clean.

Baby, I’ve been everywhere at this point. I’d rather go to heaven.