I'm a drug dealer?:

Is it bad that my friends have now chosen me to turn to when they need a fix? Today, my girl Ashley came over at 10:30am, banging on my fucking bedroom window. I drag my ass out of bed in my plaid flannel pj pants, and stagger to the door. My hair is a mess, I'm all icky, and I probably smell like fabric softener sheets.

Now keep in mind I haven't seen her since my birthday, which was a long time ago. The look on my face alone was probably equivalent to a heroin junkies' when they haven't had a hit in ages. I almost died. I guess I can tell you why I haven't seen Ash since my birthday bash. One word: crack.
Ashley looks like shit now:
This is your ass:
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This is your ass on crack:
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She used to be pretty and have meat on her bones. Now she weighs 85 pounds. It's like looking at a mega skinny Courtney Love. It's fucking sick.

So anyway. She wakes me up at 10:30 in the morning. BIG NONO. I go to bed at 8am as it is. I will kill people that awake me from my slumber. When I answer the door, the first words out of her mouth are "Do you have $20 so I can get high?" - umm, no bitch. I do have a foot that I can stick up your ass to lift you off my doorstep though.
"Do you have anything you can give me?" - you idiot. I'm sorry, I don't live for drugs, please die.
"I thought you were a dealer now" - *slams door in her face*

What the hell!?
Drugs don't bother me. Hell, everyone's done something. It just gets on my nerves when people are so dependant that they will stoop low enough to almost beg someone that hates them just to get high. And people have ass for a reason, feed it, it looks good on everyone.
Everyone that's on crack needs to eat like ten steaks a day. I like ass, so keep it.