A little story about fentanyl.

So, I used to make Dope. I was very good at making Dope. So good, that even the fentanyl dealers were fawning over my goods. I made a dope so good, it was good enough to get a person strung out. I made a Dope, so good, that the cops would come to me, just to get it out of the streets. I made a Dope, so good, that it would make you look like a zombie. My Dope was so good, that I made it in my living room. My Dope was so good, that I got kicked out of my house because of it. My Dope was so good. I think about my Dope every day. I miss my Dope. I miss my Dope so much, that I even think about making more dope, but I don’t. I don’t go to rehab. I don’t hit meetings. I just talk about my Dope.<br><br>By the way, am I still a dope fiend?