Blessed Blow
God had the best cocaine. My friends assured me of that. Nothing was as clear, pure, and effective as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table at weekends.
God was not even twenty years old. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a notorious Catholic boarding school for girls. We should have named her Devil, at least if her stories from there were to be believed.
Since God liked me, I was always allowed to snort for free. But that privilege made me feel like a mooch, so I paid for her food at McDonald’s and her drinks at Bar 25 in return. Sometimes at least.
While I randomly consumed everything I could get my hands on, God only used cocaine to function. Her minimalist usage made a great impression on me.
After a trip to her parents in the south, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor has it there was trouble with a classmate. God had smashed her head so hard against a sink in the restroom during an argument that it broke. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.