You jump into the shower, turning the water on so hot that it almost scalds you, and when you get out, your skin is baby pink and steams up the bathroom mirror. Having watched Jerry Maguire, you've decided that air-drying is the way to go and means less washing and so you step into the bedroom and turn on the stereo. You turn the volume up so loud that the bass vibrates in your chest and you close your eyes, playing air-guitar naked in front of your closet mirror, rocking your head to the beat as droplets fly off your hair. You are Jimi Hendrix; Kurt Cobain; Jim Morrison - you suddenly realise that they are all dead and open your eyes.

Stood in front of you is a thirty-two year old man who is still vaguely good-looking but fast developing a slouch, a guy that is fading around the edges. The reality hits you, and you drop onto the bed, unable to tear your gaze away from the mirror, your hand reaching into your bedside drawer. You fumble around for a moment, fingers grobing blindly for the tin inside. Finally, you force yourself to turn away and rummage through your underwear until you finally find your stash.

Trying to remain controlled, you pick your discarded pants up and put them back in the drawer, pausing to put on a pair of black boxers. Then you sit back down and examine the tin, assessing what would be best to have. There's about a gram of coke in a sealed bag, three pills and an eighth of draw. You stare at the Es hungrily, but reason that you'd practically be coming down by the time you went out. The draw would put you straight to sleep and so the bag is opened and your smooth leather briefcase comes in handy as you cut two lines on its surface, using your Amex to make sure that they are straight and even. You hoover them up using a twenty dollar bill and lean back, sniffing hard as the powder burns a trail up your nose and blazes a trail to the back of your head. Then you swallow and it hits your throat - a powdery, bitter, instant painkiller. You lean back on your hands and exhale slowly, then sit up straight and grin at yourself in the mirror. Now you are ready to get ready.

You use an extra glob of wax when doing your hair, spray deodorant and eau de toilette. By 7:30, you are sat in the living room, bottles of vodka and orange juice in front of you, another neat line ready to be gobbled up. By 8:00 the alcohol has gone and the best Bolivian is clogging up your airways and you're ready and raring to go, buzzing with your pills in clingwrap down your sock.

'Fuck clean living', you think, slamming your apartment door behind you, 'I'm after a life less ordinary'.

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