Portrait of a Drug Dealer

<p>“The off ramp came as a surprise. Mechanically I turned the steering wheel. Windshield wipers were keeping time with the pulsing bass pumping out the amp in the trunk rain sliced through the night sky pelting a dreary line of soulless metallic shells. My knuckles were white my palms sweaty. As I tried to light a cigarette the numbness permeating my whole body intensified in my thumb thwarting my attempts to spark the lighter. I had lost too much blood. Tears came rushing to my eyes but I stifled them with a long snort. This was no time for weakness. It did not matter that I was alone in the car.</p><p> </p><p>Weakness is a choice. Certainly there are those who are predisposed to weakness to cowardice but it is inevitably a choice for which there is no excuse. One may point to past traumatic experiences one may use their upbringing to rationalize character defects but it always comes down to a choice. People choose to be weak and that for me was not a choice. Well it was a choice but one that would ultimately lead to either prison or the grave.” </p><p>-excerpt from Portrait of a Drug Dealer</p>