It looks so innocent, so tiny, in my gritty hand, which still reeks of pickle juice, mayonnaise and bacon grease from a long day on the line. My heart is pounding from my bike ride home, and sweat courses down my brow. I hold the cupcake in one hand and a cold Leinie's Original in the other. This is to be the point where the wave of my drug consumption that summer, and possibly my life, crests. And it's all in this little chocolate cupcake.
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