Now this might actually work wonders for the drug crisis
You don’t need to see a horror film to jump out of your seat anymore. The images on cigarette packets look like they’re rebooting the Saw franchise. Don’t Drive and Drive ads are so scary your Nan nearly goes into cardiac arrest during every Emmerdale break. And between Brexit and Trump, politics is playing out like a far-fetched episode of Black Mirror. So it’s little wonder we’re all becoming a tad desensitised to all these warnings, and, well, life in general.
Keeping tomato ketchup in the fridge will give us cancer, we’re told, and speaking on our phones will give us a tumour. Sigh. Instead of scaring us, it’s just cultivated a general feeling of: ‘Well, guess we’re getting cancer and tumours then… might as well enjoy ourselves,’ among our generation.
In particular, when it comes to illegal drugs, it appears the relentless warnings about everybody’s imminent death, courtesy of the government, have massively lost their mojo. Remember, this is a generation that are more scared of their battery dying than, you know, actually dying. Perhaps the war on drugs needs a more modern and relatable rethink?
And so, here are some warnings they’d never even think of – that could potentially carry some weight for today’s ‘youth.’ No, you might not die, per say, but this’ll scare you even more. MPs, take note.
You run the risk of becoming extremely horny but also completely unable to get an erection.
Take MDMA. Well, don’t take it, if you don’t want to… I mean take it as an example. A drug that makes you love everyone, but consistently takes away your ability to really love them.
You know the drill; you’ve got yourself nice and high, and you’ve started talking to a stranger who you think is the greatest person you’ve ever met, even though you absolutely cannot remember their name, (‘Craig? Is it Craig?’) and now you’re figuring out where the ‘after party’ is going to be, like it’s some sort of military operation.
Planning head, you’ve gathered more drugs – hurrah! – you’ve purchased more fags, and you’re even now wearing a feather boa, although you don’t remember how you acquired it. Finally, you’re ready to take your evening with your new friend, (‘OK, I wanna say… Chris?’) to the next level. Only you aren’t ready. Well, one part of you – and a crucial one at that – isn’t, anyway. That part of you fell asleep five hours ago, when the rest of the world did. It’s hanging pitifully in its slumber, dreaming of freshly-out-the-dryer Calvin Kleins and hot bubble baths. And you’re left desperately batting it around like it’s a remote control on the fritz, hoping it will spring into action.
But it won’t. It refuses, which leaves you entertaining a guest that you’ve now realised is not only nowhere near as attractive as you thought, but is also stealing change from the drawer in your kitchen. Hard times. Or rather, erm, flaccid times.
Forget hangovers, you’re signing up for a midweek identity crisis – with a side of depression.
OK, you snorted a few lines of charlie during your boring friend’s birthday party, and you didn’t tell anyone, and no one noticed, because they’re all so boring – so why would they? Sure, you felt bad about it. But it got you through the night, it meant you were a good friend – until you started insulting everyone, anyway – and then best of all, the next day while they all nursed their pathetic little hangovers, you still felt totally buzzed. But wait, you’re not out of the woods yet, my friend.
Wednesday comes. ‘What’s this?’ you wonder. ‘I’ve awoken, and efficiently completed my usual routine – Weetabix, wank, work, but I feel, so… sad. Am I depressed? Surely not..? I don’t have time to be depressed. I’ve agreed to meet a friend for bowling tonight, and I have a Tinder date tomorrow.’ Snap out of it, you tell yourself, but – unfortunately – you can’t.
Everything seems so incredibly bleak. Broad City isn’t making you laugh like it usually would. The Cardi B album suddenly sounds grating. All you want to do is lock yourself in a dark room and close your eyes, patiently waiting for this feeling to pass. And inevitably, it does, and – like childbirth or Adam Sandler movies – you block the whole experience from memory, knowing if you truly remembered that feeling then you’d never touch a bloody bag of that shite again. And yet, when Friday comes around, what do you do? Of course you do.
Alcohol may make you mean… but some drugs cause far more worrying problems.
We’ve all been there. You got pissed, you had a strong urge to tell someone you know precisely what’s wrong with their personality and life, and in the spirit of being good to yourself, you allowed yourself to wholeheartedly fulfill that desire. Tears were shed, Ubers were ordered and, the next morning, apologies were frantically dished out frantically over WhatsApp. But you know the upside of being a bit of a drunken twat? You always have that safety net of an apology. Even if it’s not accepted, it’s there, waiting, like a shiny red button behind a thin sheet of glass, whispering: Go on, press me.
However, there are some substance-led behaviours that not even an apology will help you out with. I’m talking about the times you say something that you don’t mean, that’s actually (gulp!) nice. Picture this. You took speed, and – understandably – you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing. Inexplicably, you rang your sister, who has been consistently pissing you off for months (to the point where you’re considering looking into legal separation,) and you told her that you love her. You told her that you respect her. You told her, for reasons unbeknown to anyone, that you envy her. Why did you do this? Well, you didn’t do this. Fucking speed did this, making it quite possibly the most dangerous drug on the planet (up yours, heroin.) But come morning time, or more likely, afternoon time, when you get out of bed, filled with shame and regret, you can’t call her up and apologise, can you? ‘Sorry, Rach, I didn’t mean it when I said you were a lovely person. I take back everything I said about being jealous of your life. What I actually meant to say was you’re a dick and mum dreads your calls. Sorry-not-sorry.’
Instead you’re forced to live in a world where you’ve said nice things you didn’t mean, and you can never, ever take it back. Let that be a warning. Snort carefully, people.
And if those warnings don’t work, well, let’s see. Erm, everything in moderation, drink lots of water. Not too much though. And be safe… yada yada yada