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While we sit in the diner that we sat in years ago with your best friend before he killed himself, making small talk about the weather and gardening, I'm stifling a spiteful urge to put a dent in your already-fragile view of reality. While you smile proudly at stories about my job and community work, I'm not telling you that there's a part of me that's not too different from the demonized persona that you accused me of having from birth. You said I was a whore before I knew what sex was. You accused me of doing every drug you could think of the name of (and some that I'm still not sure exist) before I'd even smoked weed. Now that we've moved past me being the target of your drunken schizo-babble and you've developed a sort of hope and pride toward me, I want you to know that I love drugs like I love men: casually and with decent variety. I do what feels right, improves me as a person, or improves my community/the lives of my loved ones. I've yet to do anything I fully regret and look forward to changing that some day. I don't believe in God, but sometimes I talk to him for fun. Many people can call me a friend, I'm often welcome in groups, sometimes respected, occasionally lusted after, and rarely hated. I can identify most drugs at a glance and give decent descriptions of their effects. I'm a good worker, both paid and as a community volunteer. I suck dick like a fucking pro. I can defend myself. I can defend my friends and family. Friends know they can call me with any problem, and if I can't fix it, I'll sit with them as they cry or help them find distraction. I can grow my own food and make a badass vegan soup. I can be counted upon.