Morphine Suppositories.

1995. West Hollywood, California.

A rock star friend, invited me over to his house to to hang out, catch up and bang on some guitars.

KEITH: Hey, man. Can I get you anything to drink?

ME: Yeah. Do you have any scotch?

KEITH: Naw mate. I have Rye.

ME: Anything else? Vodka? Tequila?

KEITH: Oh. I just remembered, someone gave me some morphine suppositories. They're pretty good.

ME: I don't know man.  I'm just not a lucky person.

KEITH: What does luck have to do with anything?

ME: As much as I love a  narcotic analgesic, I just don't want my parents to read in the newspaper that I was found dead of an overdose with my pants around my ankles, slumped over a sofa with a musician covered in tattoos.  They deserve better than that.

KEITH: I get it mate. Gin?