“Dig in the pope's pocket for the bullet, the brown glass vial with the magic top. Snort. Taste chemicals running down the back of your throat. Snort again.”

“See a storm. See a bad spanking. See your boy is ugly. Decide your boy is the pope. Blow the pope away with an imaginary gun. Fellate your own fingers afterward.”

“Let the two cross-tops and junk gin and four no-filter Camels make your heart pound.”

“Decide then as you set your jaw and clench your teeth that you will get rid of your boy. Promise yourself this. You will get rid of your boy as soon as the cocaine and money run out. Promise yourself. Try to remember the word. Promise. Swear.”

“We'd run out of coke but not out of time.”

“Heroin makes you sick the first try. Cigarette smoking too if you're lucky. But if you're not lucky, and you develop a taste, if you're one who senses that cocaine gets better with time, or you're one who jumps out of a plane and becomes an adrenaline junky, or you're one who loves the feel of grease melting over your tongue in the form of pecan pie or thick clam chowder or a fat porterhouse or just plain ol' Doritos by the bagful, and you want to repeat the same comfort and recognizable surprise of that first go, that first indulgence, and yet with each succeeding bite the small hope of true satisfaction slides farther away, then you understand Celeste, at least a little.”

“Know the mistake of your dcision before your first step.”