The stench of liqueur and drugs hits you even before you reach your apartment. And when you do actually open the door your boyfriend is half passed out on your couch, joint in hand. Of course he's high. Recently he's spent more time with a bottle in hand than with you. Finding him like this is almost as bad as finding him with a groupie backstage at his last gig, and yet you forgave him because you always do. His gaze meets yours and he raises a hand lazily. Hey, doll, need another bottle.