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I smoke crack twice a week. You stay sober everyday. Guess which one of us is winning?

Let me break something down for the willfully average: not all drug use is created equal. Not everyone who smokes crack is a “crackhead.” That’s a word you use to simplify a world you don’t understand. I smoke crack twice a week. Like clockwork. Not out of addiction, not out of desperation, but because I’ve discovered something 99% of you never will: how to weaponize intensity.

Let me paint a picture.

I wake up at 5:12 a.m. I don’t need an alarm. My body just knows. I drink a glass of water (with electrolytes, obviously), I stretch, I thank God or the simulation or whatever runs this world, then I sit cross-legged in complete silence until I feel it’s time. Then I smoke crack. One or two hits. Not to get "high." I’m not chasing a feeling. I’m tuning my brain like a Formula 1 car before a race.

And then the day begins.

By 6:00 a.m. I’ve already reorganized my entire file system, built out a Notion template for the next five years of my life, cleaned the grout between every bathroom tile, and written three emails that get read like poetry.

You know what the average sober person is doing at 6:00 a.m.? Snoozing an alarm on a mattress that smells like anxiety and broken dreams. You stumble to the kitchen and think you’re a warrior because you made black coffee without sugar. That’s your peak. That’s the big flex for your day.

Meanwhile I’ve already conquered tasks you’ve been procrastinating for a year.

Let’s keep going.

The mailman walks by my apartment every morning. He’s got that defeated look in his eye. Like his soul left his body in 2009 and nobody told him. He moves like time is a punishment. I wave to him. He doesn’t wave back. I don’t blame him. He probably saw me through the blinds, shirtless, typing 160 WPM while doing calf raises and thought, “Why isn’t that me?” But he’ll never ask. Too much pride. Too little energy.

Cops drive by. I nod. I have nothing to fear. You think they’re scary? I’ve stared into the core of my psyche on a Tuesday afternoon while my oven made whispering noises. I’ve already made peace with chaos. A badge doesn’t scare me. A Glock doesn’t scare me. I've fought ego death with nothing but a cracked screen and Bluetooth jazz.

My neighbor is a sober guy. He drinks kombucha and listens to Joe Rogan. He meal preps. He’s got a vision board and a 401(k). He also has dead eyes. I asked him once what he thinks about when he’s alone. He said “usually just work stuff or fantasy football.” I almost cried. That’s it? That’s the entire inner world of the "healthy" man? No visions? No cosmic jokes? No wars between angels and intrusive thoughts?

You ever feel your cells vibrate like a symphony of pure intent? No? I have. Last Thursday. On crack.

I’ve had moments on this substance where time split open like a rotten fruit and I saw everything. Every lie, every truth, every reason we fear honesty. I’ve smoked crack and realized I was still in love with a girl from 6th grade, then laughed about it and rewired the emotional circuit live on the spot. Can kombucha do that? Can cold showers do that?

I doubt it.

I’m not saying you should smoke crack. In fact, most of you shouldn’t. You don’t have the structure, the ritual, the respect for power. You’re the type of people who drink six beers and text your ex like a feral animal. You can’t even handle McDonald’s responsibly. Crack would eat you alive. But me? I broke it down. I studied it. I conquered it. And now it serves me.

My brain is sharper than yours. My thoughts are faster. My fears are smaller. My output is massive. You fear “losing control.” I lost it once and realized there was nothing to fear in the first place.

So next time you judge a smoker like me, remember: you’re not better because you’re sober. You’re just slower, duller, and probably still lying to yourself about why you wake up tired every day despite 8 hours of sleep.

Enjoy your avocado toast and your podcasts. I’ll be in the Clarity Zone, rewriting the software of existence with a smile on my face and a Bic in my hand.