I'm obsessed with drugs. I think about them all the time, to the point where they've started randomly appearing in my memories. I'm 18 and getting bullied by girls at the bus stop when suddenly a meth lab falls on one of the girls, killing her and distracting her friends long enough for me to escape. I hide in an anime convention, where people are browsing katana swords with the same blissful look girls get when making fun of me. I realize that while there are a million types of pain all pleasure is basically the same, so what does it matter where one gets it from, whether it be bullying, anime or even drugs?
I buy some DMT, but the dealer accidentally gives me the synthetic estrogen DES. I take several shots but feel nothing. Later at a football game I realize I've been shooting into a cyst and pop it, filling my body with DES, which turns me into a woman so fast I become a black hole of testosterone, sucking in all the men in the stands, their bodies spaghettifying on the event horizon of my vagina. A cameraman records the incident and plays it backwards on the Jumbotron, so it looks like I'm giving birth to thousands of men.
To avoid further mishaps I get a cystectomy, but the doctor thinks it's the bladder kind and removes my bladder, rerouting my urine to my sweat glands. The next day a doctor performing a drug test has to lick me and see if he gets high. I've been taking Adderall and the doctor gets stimulant psychosis and tries to do a zeroth trimester abortion by cutting out my womb. I take some DSL, a form of LSD that sends you back in time, and tell my 16-year-old self to never do drugs. Because I'm the first girl who's ever talked to him he asks me out. When I say no, he gets depressed and smokes crack, making my teeth fall out and a tramp stamp appear on my back.
I knock the pipe from his hand with my muscles from prison and take some more DSL with orange juice, planning to visit myself before puberty. But I forget that orange juice potentiates time-travel effects, sending me back to the dawn of time where I'm gored by a wooly mammoth. I think this would make a good anti-drug ad. If you want to use it let me know.
I became an addict by borrowing my friend's car, which had a broken breathalyzer that let you drive only when intoxicated. To be a designated driver I had to drink beer, then do coke to cancel out the beer, then Quaaludes to take the edge off the coke, then PCP to stay awake on the Quaaludes, then more beer to drown out my friends, who'd be yelling at me to find my clothes and get off the roof because they wanted to go home.
I’d usually end up in the room where people too trashed to party sit and stare at the floor. It was always too crowded. Someday party hosts will increase its capacity, maybe altering gravity so people can sit on the walls and ceiling. Parties will be routinized until their attendant problems – fights, puking, ghosts of people who lost at drinking games staring at you accusingly – are a thing of the past.
Driving home I had to make pit stops at liquor stores to keep the alcohol on my breath. The stores got farther apart, traffic got worse, a crashed Burger Hub delivery car with a frialator in the trunk spilling burning vegetable oil across the highway. But I felt great, totally alive, as though until now I'd been the undead Jason Voorhees in Next Friday the 13th, which my friend Lana and I had watched recently, along with Ice Cube's other horror films, Are We Dead Yet? and Nightmare on the Street the Barbershop Is On.
"This is where Craig blows chronic smoke in Jason's face, stunning him long enough for Smokey to run him over in his El Camino," Lana said.
"The friendship between Craig and Smokey reminds me of what great friends we are and how much you mean to me," I said.
"Sorry, just the drugs letting me talk."
I'm going through withdrawals and staring at the moon, wondering if it's the face of a laughing god or a hologram projected by NASA so they can finance fake missions to it and spend the money on malt liquor and prostitutes, and which would be worse. The room is full of syringes stuck in the floor like steeples to an underground deity. The table is covered with crack vials, which remind me of coffins, because as a formaldehyde addict I crave the contents of both.
I've heard the moon is the god of addiction because of all the Romantics who smoked opium and gazed at it. I once asked McDonalds' lunar mascot Mac Tonight for some drugs, but he said that contrary to rumors he has nothing to do with addiction. Leaving the restaurant I passed people gorging themselves with fast food, their faces edged in green light from a utility truck replacing a transformer McDonald's had blown overusing its defibrillator. I met a blind man who said that after he passes out in an MSG coma his dog drags him home, although sometimes he wishes the dog would drag him somewhere else, somewhere new where he could start over.
I stole the man's wallet and bought some LDS, a Mormon drug that fills you with religious ecstasy, which is a lot like MMDA ecstasy except you periodically see crosses. If you overdose on LDS you get raptured, which resembles the end-level animation in Zool, your sprite twirling into the sky surrounded by gold coins, your parents fighting in the living room. You look at your mom, who's about to make a face that will make you fear relationships for the rest of your life. But then a bunch of heroin bricks fall from the ceiling like Tetris blocks, blocking the doorway.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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