|photo illustration: LA Weekly|
It's been said that miserable circumstances are incited when you piss off your bartender, hairdresser or leader of your preferred religious denomination, in addition to a slew of people in other professions (your pizza delivery guy, your fitness instructor) who've had enough of you. Being that we thoroughly believe in transparency, and since these days even our moms have started smoking pot again, we're going to go right ahead and add one's drug dealer to the aforementioned list. Yes, I said it. Don't wag your finger at the monitor; I've probably got your number, too.
Of course your dealer knows the risks he or she faces from the police and federal authorities, but that isn't your dealer's main fear. Dealing can be akin to being a local celebrity, but without most of the perks that go along with stardom, and they've probably made peace or precautions with the Johnny Law scenario. Your dealer's main fear is wondering what kind of shit you're going to pull on a daily basis. (Emailing me with a request for drugs would be one of those moves, so file that under "don't even think about it" before we proceed.)