I wake up to shattered glass and vomit on the floor of the motel room. Shallow cuts on my hand, specks of blood on the sheets. I don't know how I got here, how I paid for this room. There was a man! I remember. He must've taken care of it. I don't know where he went, can't even recall what he looked like. Must've scared him away. And that's fine with me. I try to recollect the details of last night. I see a broken handle of whiskey that explains the glass, the cuts, the pounding headache. I know Nico abandoned me on the side of the road. Where am I anyway? Just why did I break that bottle? I feel hazy, confused, but lucid enough to know I need to escape before the damage is discovered. I put on my shoes, step carefully over the mess on the carpet. The smell is horrendous. I brush white dust off the bedside table, flush the empty bag. I hear a knock, maybe next door. Panicked, I grab my purse and dash from the room leaving the door open. I run outside, bounding down the sidewalk as if I know where I'm going. I check the time—late for lab. No wait, it's Saturday. Or Sunday? I don't know. Where am I going? I stop. Do I call Nico? Will he come save me? I'm scared, alone, and full of twitching nerves. He answers the phone. "Yes?" He sounds terse. "Where am I?" "How should I know?" "You left me. Why did you leave me?" "You cannot be serious. Don't you remember anything?" I realize I'm crying. "I'm scared, Nico. Please come get me. I don't know where I'm going, don't know what happened." He sighs, is silent for several moments. "Did you wander off far?" I look around. I can't recognize anything. I see no street signs, but don't want to move any further. The sun is burning my eyes, my skin. "I don't know. I don't know. Come, please." "Don't you see anything?" he says, so frustrated. "A bar. And I'm near a hotel…motel, whatever." He sighs again, air crackling loudly into the receiver. He tells me he'll find me. An hour later he does. I see the gigantic cracks in his windshield, and realize that is probably what I did that resulted in my abandonment. "Oh god, Nico. I'm so sorry." My eyes are welling up again, and I sniff back tears and mucus. "I don't know what I was thinking." "I don't think anyone in the world knows what you're thinking." He glances at me for a second, then puts his eyes back on the road. "You look awful." "I am awful. An awful, awful thing. I don't know what's wrong with me, I feel so…" I can't think of a word, a phrase, to describe just what's going on in my head. There is a darkness creeping into my mind again, negative thoughts swirling. They won't stop. "Is it the cocaine? I'm done with it." "Good. And maybe, I don't know. Coke's never made me bug out like that, but you've been going pretty hard with it." I rest my head against the passenger door, staring at the mess I've made of his car. I suddenly know—I feel like that window. Like something has broken inside of me, tearing through my psyche. It has to be the cocaine. I can't—don't want to—recognize it as something else. "That bag. You should sell it, pay for the window." Nico laughs, pulling into his parking spot. "I think we should dump it. You can figure out another way to pay for the damage." "He's going to come for me," I say, as the magnitude of my crime finally dawns on me. T could kill me. Would he kill me? "I have to leave, or he'll find me. Hurt me, maybe you." "What are you talking about?" I shake my head—can't tell him, he'll be liable. I've put everyone I know in danger. What the fuck was I thinking? Where has my head been? I need a drink. Nico gets me a beer, allows me to stay the night. I don't sleep, instead spend the time packing everything into my car again. I can't put him in danger. I already have. Oh, the awful things I've done—my brain throws the memories at me like daggers. Where did this all come from? I feel I've lost control, the sudden plummet from the top of the atmosphere resulting in a spectacular crash in my head. I hear one thought clearly above the rest of the mess in there—you're going to die. [HR][/HR] I'm going to die. I'm certain of this. And not in the way everyone knows, the way we all eventually meet our demise. My time is soon; I can feel the seconds of my life tick away with each heartbeat. You're going to die. I fell asleep in my car this morning, a few blocks away from Nico's. I check the time, the date. I'm late for lab, for real this time. I speed there, park illegally, run inside desperate to maintain my rock star status in their eyes. "You missed lab meeting," my professor says. "What's up?" "I overslept," I say, the only thing I can think of. "I'm so sorry." I'm sure I look terrible, the same clothes I've had on since Saturday wrinkled, smelly. My hair is frizzy, out of control. "You do look tired. Grab some coffee, we'll talk about the project." I follow her into her office, take out a pen and paper while she spits rapid-fire instructions at me. I was able to follow her, just a few days ago, but now I can't keep up. I scribble random words that I catch, nod along like everything is fine. "Does that make sense?" "Of course," I lie. "I can handle it." I go to my desk and want nothing more than to curl under it and hide, go to sleep. I just need to calm down, and everything will be fine. The grad student supervising me tells me he needs my help sacrificing. That's what we call it—sacrificing. We end the animal's life and scoop out its brain, all in the name of science. I feel queasy, but I help him. This was all fine a week ago. Watch the white rat heads plop into the sink, collect them and snip out the brain from the skull. The snapping bone, the blood running rose pink with the water from the faucet, the twitching body of the lab rat on the miniature guillotine—it's all too much. We trap the rats in an anesthesia chamber, the isoflurane gas making them spin and press against the walls until they plop, breathing slowly. I lift them from the bowl and he chop, chop, chops away at head after head. You're going to die, you filthy rat. I'm rattled, completely. I visit my freak mice, press my hand against a cage while they sniff at the plastic. "I'm so sorry," I say, and I know they understand. I get the crazy idea to set them free—resist it. "It's for the greater good!" They squeak, fighting each other in the cages. I wonder if they're feeling the rage I feel sometimes, the crushing misery. It's sinking in, I can feel it. You want to die. [HR][/HR] I wake up in my car again. I think it's the day I'm supposed to move into my new apartment, but my sense of time is all screwed up. I've been living in my car for a few days now. Agitated—it's the best word to describe the thoughts and energy running through me. I feel the stardust inside of me, feel my connection to the universe. It's a spiky, nervous feeling. I'm channeling too much of the cosmos, and I cannot handle all of the power. I need to harness it, to pull myself through whatever it is I'm experiencing right now. It's 2 AM, the clock tells me, and I'm laughing through tears. And I'm scared. I think everyone knows about the cocaine, am afraid to look anyone in the eye. They'll know who I am and they will tell T how to find me, and I will be dead. I want to be dead—you want to die—but not at his hand. I have to control this to the end. I close my eyes and see blood and rat fur stuck to the blade of the guillotine. I hear the crack of bone and it feels like my own neck cracking, my own brain being plucked out and examined. What would they find? I pull out my phone, dial the last number that called me. It's Jeremy. I sob loudly as soon as he answers. "He didn't get to you!" "Hey," he says softly. "Where are you?" "You know I can't tell you that." "Yeah, maybe you shouldn't," he agrees, laughing a little. "He's looking for you, you know. You're not still here are you?" "I'm far away. From everyone I know, everyone I've hurt. I'm sorry, Jeremy." He lets the name slide. "Sorry for what? I'm fine. I'm worried about you." "My parents," I cry. "Are they gonna be okay?" "Don't think he knows where to find them. You fucked up big," he laughs. "Like I don't know that." I sniff loudly. "I know god," I say. "You what?" "I've found this thing you call 'God'. It's the stardust inside. The driving forces of physics propelling our lives forward. I feel it. It's scary." "Calm down. Nothing to be afraid of, I'll—" "Except my finish. But I'm not afraid of that either, really. I'm scared of an afterlife. I couldn't bear to go through this again." He starts to interrupt, but I continue. "One life was hard enough, but to suffer infinitely would be so incredibly unfair I'd kill myself a million times if I could. I will, if I need to." "Cara, wait—" "For what? Death? We're acquainted. Close friends, now. It's coming." People walk past my car. I stop talking. Jeremy is silent. When they're far enough, I continue. "I'm sorry for leaving. For everything I've done. I used you." "Used me?" "I've used everyone. Everything. The world was mine and I took it, crushed it, snorted it up. Everything is used up, and so am I." You're going to die. You want to die, filthy thing. "Oh my god, I can't do this. I have to go." I hang up before he can object, and start the car. The radio blares static, and it sounds like the familiar noise in my head. I switch the radio station, hear the singer communicating specifically to me, and just drive. I look at everyone I drive past and feel a strange connection to them. I'm either afraid of or in complete understanding with every stranger I make millisecond glimpses at in high speed. Some are against me, and I have to rush by them. One honks at me as I cut in front of him and speed away. Been driving in circles for hours. Still not tired. 6 AM. I pull into my illegal lab parking space, swipe my...
July: We’re in his cousin’s driveway again. I’m sweating hard, the car getting too hot for me to handle—I crack open the door a little. “What are you doing?” Jeremy hisses, shutting it again. Not sure why he’s so worried. We’ve been caught before. I never was even the slightest bit inclined to do something like this, but now there’s something about outdoor sex that excites me. His friends are in the car behind us, knowing fully well what’s going on behind the foggy windows. I clasp my bra back on, pull my underwear up. I’m feeling almost faint from the afterglow. He’s humming along to a song on the hip-hop playlist I made just for him, eyes closed. I’m silent for the first time in a while—he’s commented on my endless stream of chatter before—playing with the giant cross on the end of the chain he’s wearing. He glances down at my hand, smiling. “I still don’t get why you don’t believe in god.” He shakes his head. I don’t let it ruin my moment, running my fingers along one of his tattoos. “Tell me,” I say. “Tell me why I should.” He shakes his head again, then shrugs. He begins to explain, but I’m not really listening. I’m certain that nothing he could say would sway me. I continue to examine his fifteen tattoos. I wonder when and why he got so many. He wants two more, he’s told me. “Love” and “Hate”, on opposite sides of his torso. “You can’t explain faith,” he’s saying when I tune in again. “It’s just…I know there is a lord, and he’s taking care of me.” Jeremy looks at me like, “Well?” I nod again, and he looks exasperated. “How can you explain miracles? Real miracles! Like life.” “I can explain life,” I laugh. “Bullshit. Where’d the world come from, then?” “Well, the beginning of life and the beginning of the universe are two different things,” I reply, sitting up. “But they’re intertwined in a beautiful way.” “What are you talking about?” “Stars!” I say with a little too much enthusiasm. “It’s all from stardust. There’s that Carl Sagan quote...‘The nitrogen in our DNA, calcium in our teeth, iron in our blood’?” “The fuck are you saying?” “He’s a famous scientist. He was saying all the parts that make up the world, and the parts that made life…they all came from collapsing insides of stars. Isn’t that fucking beautiful? To come from the stars?” “I don’t get it,” Jeremy shrugs. He points upward, ostensibly to the heavens. “He’s up there. God is truth.” I just grin at him, yet again unbothered by the chasm that is the differences between us. Later, inside of his cousin’s house in their makeshift studio, I’m watching him record a track, witnessing the switch between Jeremy—which is what he’s called in my head—and Young LG, which I’ll never call him to his face. It feels too ridiculous. I’m happy to learn, however, that he’s actually pretty good at what he does. His rhyming, his word play, the flow—it’s clear that this is his own form of genius. 4 A.M. sneaks up on me. But I’m not tired, haven’t been in a while. Sometimes I can feel the energy building up in me, making me twitch and fidget, pace back and forth. Restlessness zaps through my brain, my body. But I’m young, and it’s summer, the perfect time to feel so alive. Jeremy wraps me in a hug so tight and long I wonder if he’ll ever let go. When he does, I’m presented with his beautiful smile, dimples denting his cheeks slightly. “See you tomorrow,” he says, sort of sadly. Tomorrow—our last day working together. I informed my managers of my plans to leave sort of late, but it had to be that way. Not that I give one shit about pissing them off. An opportunity to leave for San Francisco arose when a professor contacted me about starting a research rotation before the semester begins, pay and all. I’ve been miserable, fast food and failure scented too long for my tastes, and found it impossible to turn down. I cannot wait to be immersed in the world of research and academia. Where I belong. Jeremy despised high school, and cannot wrap his head around going back to more in college, let alone volunteering your youth away in graduate school. I’ve tried to explain to him why it appeals to me. Unfortunately, the magic of scientific discovery is lost on him. [HR][/HR] The ideas are bubbling in my mind, and I eagerly scrawl them down in my black, tattered journal. I want to study genes associated with schizophrenia. I want to discover a new anti-depressant, to flip the switch in the brain that turns sadness into euthymia. I am capable of anything. I imagine the mice and rats I will work with—can see myself plating cells and culturing neurons. The thoughts I have almost overwhelm me. I can feel them bumping together in my head, shouting over each other. I scribble them all. Upon finding out I’ll be moving away early, I decide to contact an old friend of mine who moved to Oakland back in high school. I met Nicolai junior year, and haven’t seen him since graduation when he bit my earlobe. My earrings apparently reminded him of green M&Ms—the sexy ones, he’d said. He’s readily offered me a spot on his couch until I can afford to get my own place. I’ve been saving more money lately, hanging out with Jeremy. Budgeting for weed is not necessary around him and his friends, who smoke me out for free because they like seeing pretty girls get high. Jeremy just loves introducing me to everyone he knows. “Guess how old she is?” he always asks, because apparently I really do look sixteen. The guys all flirt with me slyly, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Almost seems proud of it. Nearly all of his friends rap—they have a group, in fact—and a good number of them deal. I flash smiles and girlish pouts to get free dime bags and blunts. They seem fascinated by me, a blabbering genius mess, while Jeremy just looks on. He’s smiling, but behind it I know he’s warning them to back off. “It’s fucking hot in here,” his friend Dame says. He and three of the others have popped some Molly, and I’m jealous. Jeremy says he doesn’t fuck with anything but the green, but I find myself craving a different high suddenly. “Do you have any more?” I ask, hoping for a yes and betting I look cute enough to get a dose for free. “You’re not ready for this,” Dame laughs. “And I’m out anyway.” “Let’s get more!” I clap my hands like an excited child. “Don’t listen to her,” Jeremy says. “Yes, listen to me. We’ll get more. I’ve got money. How much is it?” Dame smiles slowly, not nearly as dazzling as Jeremy can. “You want me to hook you up?” I make a noise of disgust, impatient. “That’s what I said, nigga.” Everyone laughs, loudly, at that. I don’t know whether to revel in it, or feel like they’re all laughing at me. I just laugh along. “Help me out.” “I’ll make a call.” [HR][/HR] He doesn’t find me any Molly. But he does introduce me to a man named T. Only T. “Teeee,” I say, giggling. He raises an eyebrow at me, and both Jeremy and Dame give me a look that says, “Shut the fuck up.” They both seem afraid of him. I’m afraid of no one. “I’m Cara. Nice to meet you,” I continue with a grin, extending my hand. T snorts a little laugh, grabbing my hand. He kisses it and keeps holding on, guiding me inside his apartment. Jeremy’s nostrils flare a bit, but he says nothing. “What are you looking for?” T asks. “Whatcha got?” I ask, bouncing a little in my chair. His living room is impeccable, and I’m impressed. His furniture and giant TV let me know he’s good at his job as an independent pharmaceutical sales representative, my own personal spin on the term ‘drug dealer’. T smiles almost evilly at me, but I’m still not afraid. I just smile back, sweetly. “A girl can only smoke so much weed,” I say. “I’m out of E,” he informs me. “But I’ve got some pretty good shit you may be into.” “Break it out!” I’m almost yelling. Jeremy looks really uneasy. Dame is grinning his fucking face off. T leaves the room, comes back with a baggie of white shit. “That could be anything,” I say. “Heroin. PCP. The fuck is it?” It doesn’t matter, though. I’m prepared to snort anything. “Plain old white girl,” he says, dumping some onto his glass coffee table. So cliché. Cocaine was always on my no-no list, but tonight I’m feeling invincible. He chops up a little baby line for me. “You in?” “How much is it?” “This is on the house,” T replies, giving me the same lecherous grin. He presents me with a rolled up twenty-dollar bill, and I can only think about all of the hands that may have ever touched it. The infection I’m setting my sinuses up for. “You ready?” “You’re damned right, I am,” I laugh, taking it from him. I inhale deeply, then release. I’m ready. I stick it up my nose, hands shaking already, and loudly sniff the fine white powder from the table. It’s as if I’m snorting snow—it numbs the way an application of ice would. “Good god,” I say, throwing my head back. It drips down my throat, anesthetizing the whole way down. T and Dame laugh, Jeremy shakes his head. “Want another?” I nod, and he fashions a bigger line for me this time. “Be careful, girl.” “Careful,” I repeat, smiling. “You don’t know me, T.” The next line shoots straight to my brain, where it’s supposed to go. “Holy shit,” I say, not more than a minute later. “Brain zaps.” I shake my head back and forth, feeling my thoughts speed up even further. Feeling my sense of well being ramp up to one hundred thousand billion. I start babbling then, telling them about how cocaine blocks the dopamine transporter’s function, which causes a build up at the synapses. “Dopamine’s my favorite neurotransmitter. I wear it around my neck,” I say, playing with my necklace. “It’s supposed to be the feel good chemical, but it does so much more. Basic human instinct relies on dopamine. Food. Sex.” I rub my nose. “Movement! So important for movement. You know, in Parkinson’s disorder—” “She always does this,” Dame says,...
Late June: A professor of mine told me that I have an adolescent brain. “Not to insult you or anything,” she’d said. “It’s just that at twenty-two, your brain is still developing.” It’s the thought that I’m almost done that powers me through my days lately—my days at a job designed for adolescents, the kind of job that teenagers work because they don’t know any better. Because they don’t expect to be treated like human beings yet, are used to being shit on all day, every day. But…I went to college, you know? I’ve been accepted to the neuroscience graduate program at a top ten university. I’m so fucking above this McJob and nobody even knows, the half-wits. “Can I get a number three? No onions,” the sack-of-shit customer asks. He’s polite enough, but looking through me like I’m an automaton or something. As if there’s no difference between ordering here and the fucking drive-thru. “No,” I want to say. “Fuck you,” I want to spit. “Have a nice day,” I want to add, for the perfect finish. Instead I push the picture—a freaking picture! —of the number three on my screen and acquiesce. I mumble his total, he pays, and I thank him without a hint of earnestness. He doesn’t care. Nobody ever does. I’m a pleasant person, really. In fact, lately I’ve been on top of the fucking world. Spending my time thinking about my move to San Fran, picturing nights with my roomie drinking and smoking weed while we discuss the finer points of cognitive neuroscience, imagining the big discovery I, a mere grad student, will make in the field. But then my parents knocked me down a peg or thousand reminding me I’ll have to fund said big move by myself. The graduate student stipend doesn’t come until after the semester starts, so I had to find a job. The economy demanded me to work fast food. So I come here every day, take in the ketchup and french-fry scented air, and want to kill myself. Then I go home and drink whole bottles of wine to remind myself I’m a fucking adult, scribbling madly in my journal and cackling loudly in my room as I drunkenly make big, big plans for my future. I’m going places. Who the hell are these people? What are they going to contribute to the world? “Watch out,” this kid Jeremy says behind me as he sweeps a broom underneath my register. I look at him and smile. I don’t know how old he is, but he’s one of the cutest guys I’ve ever seen in my life, and the bright spot of my current bleak circumstances. I’m so for real on this. When I’m away from here, if I’m not drinking or smoking away the crazy building inside my brain, I’m thinking about him. Sometimes while masturbating. A lot of the time masturbating. He’s hot, and I’m really horny. Probably, he’s seventeen. I’m a goddamned child molester, probably. [HR][/HR] After leaving for the night, my friend Anna says she wants to go out and I’m more than happy to oblige. She’s driving so I’m already deep into a bottle, feeling warm and excited. I talk her ear off about everything but my idiotic job, never that, while she paints her face on. I haven’t even told her—any of my friends—where I work, it’s so shameful. Sometimes I feel it’d be easier to just do it, to have a helpful ear to rant to rather than the pages of my worn out notebook. But I can’t. My inflated ego always nixes the idea. “Why are you talking so fast?” Anna asks, applying mascara. I shrug even though she can’t see me and keep going. She “uh-huh”s and “oh really?”s in the appropriate places, but I know she’s not listening. Nobody ever does. I take another swig. It takes a century, but finally we’re ready to go. We blast music on the way and I rap along expertly making her laugh like it always does. When we arrive I’m already past tipsy, walking carefully in the purple heels I borrowed from her. I feel ridiculous, but in an incredible sort of way. She’s allowed herself two drinks as if that’s not still illegal, so she heads straight to the bar. I’ve already blown my paycheck on a fuck-ton of weed and clothes, like I’m not supposed to be saving for my apartment and the move. Whatever. So I accept readily when this guy offers me a drink. I want to be drunk. I want double vision and to be in a spinning room to match how my mind already feels. I never dance, but tonight I am, twirling and shaking around the floor—I was born for this very purpose. The random who bought me one, two, three drinks is holding my waist while I laugh and move to a song I hate. I feel beautiful and full of light. A star, bursting with energy, a fucking supernova, feeling the dopamine rush while the alcohol floods my brain with GABA disinhibiting me. I always think about neurotransmitters when I’m under the influence. It reminds me it’s all just chemical, life, all about electrons spinning and working to create what we experience. Reminds me how magic it seems that all this came from nothing but natural reactions. I’m sweaty but I don’t care, he doesn’t care. He kisses my wet neck and I growl in his ear, ‘cause it feels so good and I just don’t care. The moment is gorgeous and so are we. I close my eyes and though it’s dark my vision is overwhelmed by bright, white light. White light, white heat, I think—the Velvet Underground. “Hey, you okay?” Anna yells over the music. She seems concerned, side eyeing the guy hard. His grip on my waist tightens, ready to combat the impending cock block. “Fine!” I shout back. “So fine!” She looks unconvinced but I keep dancing. Just keep dancing. “Fantastically fine. So sublime.” I giggle at my alliterative rhyme and suddenly feel dizzy. “I may vomit, though, if that’s okay with everyone.” “If you puke on me, I may not take you home,” Random says, smiling. He’s got a wonderful smile, and I decide I must go home with him. I’m insanely in need of sex, like now. “You’re not taking her home,” Anna snaps. “I am. Come on, we need to go.” “Stop!” I whine. “I’m okay, I know what I’m doing.” “I seriously doubt that,” she replies. “Come on.” She grabs my arm and I wanna hit her, but the hand on my other arm is being held by Random. “Can I get your number then?” he asks, my hand slipping from his as Anna pulls me away. I shout it as I’m led away from the dance floor, for everyone to hear. “You’re insane,” Anna says when we’re out in the summer night air. She laughs uneasily. I shriek with glee, grabbing her and spinning around until she’s laughing for real. “Glorious, my friend,” I say, out of breath. “Simply glorious.” “Hey!” someone yells behind us. “Hey, wait!” I turn to find Random guy running to catch up with us. Anna links arms with me and starts to walk faster but I stop moving. “What are you doing?” She asks, seeming concerned. “I didn’t quite catch your number,” he says, grinning a beautiful grin. I beam back at him and start to say, “Four-oh-four,” when Anna interrupts. “Look. She’s really drunk and doesn’t know what she’s doing. I can’t let her do this.” “Who the fuck are you?” I snap. “I’m a goddamned adult, I’ll give my number out as I please.” She drops my arm and looks shocked. “I’m just trying to—” “In fact,” I continue, “I don’t think I need to go home with you.” I look to Random and ask, “What’s your name?” “Brett,” he says, still dazzling me with his smile. “You wanna get out of here?” “I do, Brett. I really, really do.” I grab his hand and start running, Anna yelling my name behind us. I laugh as I hear her call ringing out through the night, like the universe is screaming my name. [HR][/HR] He’s no Jeremy, but in this moment Brett is seriously beautiful to me. I’m already naked and he’s taking off his pants slowly, like he’s trying to titillate me. I’m horny and impatient. “Could you be any slower?” I groan, less sexily and more angrily. He laughs nervously, dropping his jeans to the ground—he’s really pale. I stand on his bed and start bouncing, unable to control the energy coursing through my being. Brett stops me by grabbing my legs, and I giggle when he pushes me back onto the mattress. Finally. Release. The next morning I wake up suddenly, in the way you do when you’ve had too much to drink the night before. When you’re still a little intoxicated. When you’re not sure how you got to bed. Then comes the terrifying moment when I realize I don’t know where I am at all, fuck how I got to bed. Whose bed is this? Where is Anna? Where is my bra? “Hey,” some guy says, entering the room. “Morning.” He smiles sort of sweetly at me. His curly, dark hair is disheveled. I’m no idiot, so I know what went down. “Hi,” I reply. I lie back down and stare at his ceiling. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.” He walks over to the bed and sits down, looking at me like he’s sort of uncomfortable. “Brett,” he says, laughing a little. “Brett,” I repeat. “Where are my clothes?” He gestures around the room, my shit scattered all across the floor. I sigh and get out of the bed, collecting my stuff while I’m shamelessly naked. As I’m hooking my bra back on, Brett asks if I’d like to go get breakfast. “Pancakes or something?” My head is killing me. My brain is spinning, as usual. “I couldn’t bear to eat,” I say to him. “Plus I don’t get breakfast with strangers.” “You just sleep with them?” “When it’s necessary,” I say, shrugging. “Thanks for your services.” “You’re making me feel like a prostitute.” I smile. “Except you give it away for free.” Then I frown when I realize he’s my only way home. But I’ve spent enough time with this man I can’t even remember, of that I am sure. I hold Anna’s heels in my hand as I exit, waving goodbye. I don’t know where I am. I can’t find my way home and I’m pretty sure I can’t call anyone for help. I just walk, barefoot, until I find a bus stop. I sit on the bench and try to make the noise in my head go away. Doesn’t work. It never does. [HR][/HR] “I just can’t believe you followed a stranger home,” she...
I'm feeling really bad about this writing contest. I can't shake it. Just had to share with my blog. I let little things devour me, though.
A professor of mine told me that I have an adolescent brain. “Not to insult you or anything,” she’d said. “It’s just that at twenty-two, your brain is still developing.” It’s the thought that I’m almost done that powers me through my days lately—my days at a shitty job designed for adolescents, the kind of job that teenagers work because they don’t know any better. Because they don’t expect to be treated like human beings yet, are used to being shit on all day, every day. But, like…I went to college, you know? I’ve been accepted to the neuroscience graduate program at a top ten university. I’m so fucking above this McJob and nobody even knows, the fucking half-wits. “Can I get a number three? No onions,” the sack-of-shit customer asks. He’s polite enough, but looking through me like I’m an automaton or something. Like there’s no difference between ordering here and the fucking drive-thru. “No,” I want to say. “Fuck you,” I want to spit. “Have a nice day,” I want to add, for the perfect finish. Instead I push the picture—a fucking picture! —of the number three on my screen and acquiesce. I mumble his total, he pays, and I thank him without a hint of earnestness. He doesn’t care. Nobody ever does. I’m a pleasant person, really. In fact, lately I’ve been on top of the fucking world. Spending my time thinking about my move to San Fran, picturing nights with my roomie drinking and smoking weed while we discuss the finer points of cognitive neuroscience, imagining the big discovery I, a mere grad student, will make in the field. But then my parents knocked me down a peg or thousand reminding me I’ll have to fund said big move by myself. The graduate student stipend doesn’t come until after the semester starts, so I had to find a job. The shit economy said I had to work fast food. So I come here every day and want to kill myself, and go home and drink whole bottles of wine to remind myself I’m a fucking adult, scribbling madly in my journal and cackling loudly in my room as I drunkenly make big, big plans for my future. I’m going places. Who the fuck are these people? What are they going to contribute to the world? “Watch out,” this kid Jeremy says behind me as he sweeps a broom underneath my register. I look at him and smile. I don’t know how old he is, but he’s one of the cutest guys I’ve ever seen in my life, and the bright spot of my current bleak circumstances. I’m so for real on this. When I’m away from here, if I’m not drinking or smoking away the crazy building inside my brain, I’m thinking about him. Sometimes while masturbating. A lot of the time masturbating. He’s hot, and I’m really horny. Probably, he’s seventeen. I’m a goddamned child molester, probably. After I leave for the night, my friend Anna says she wants to go out and I’m more than happy to oblige. She’s driving so I’m already deep into a bottle, feeling warm and excited. I talk her ear off about everything but my fuck-ass job, never that, while she paints her face on. I haven’t even told her—any of my friends—where I work, it’s so shameful. Sometimes I feel it’d be easier if I did, to have a helpful ear to rant to rather than the pages of my worn out notebook. But I can’t. My inflated ego always nixes the idea. “Why are you talking so fast?” Anna asks, applying mascara. I shrug even though she can’t see me and keep going. She “uh-huh”s and “oh really?”s in the appropriate places, but I know she’s not listening. Nobody ever does. I take another swig. It takes what feels like a century, but finally we’re ready to go. We blast music on the way and I rap along expertly making her laugh like it always does. When we arrive I’m already past tipsy, walking carefully in the purple heels I borrowed from her. I feel ridiculous, but in an incredible sort of way. She’s allowed herself two drinks like that’s not still illegal, so she heads straight to the bar. I’ve already blown my paycheck on a fuck-ton of weed and clothes, like I’m not supposed to be saving for my apartment and the move. Whatever. So I accept readily when this guy offers me a drink. I want to be drunk. I want double vision and to be in a spinning room to match how my mind already feels. I never dance, but tonight I am, twirling and shaking around the floor like I was born for this very purpose. The random who bought me one, two, three drinks is holding my waist while I laugh and move to a song I hate. I feel beautiful and full of light, like a star, bursting with energy like a fucking supernova, feeling the dopamine rush while the alcohol floods my brain with GABA disinhibiting me. I always think about neurotransmitters when I’m under the influence. It reminds me it’s all just chemical, life, all about electrons spinning and working to create what we experience. Reminds me how magic it seems that all this came from nothing but natural reactions. I’m sweaty but I don’t care, he doesn’t care. He kisses my wet neck and I growl in his ear, ‘cause it feels so good and I just don’t care. The moment is gorgeous and so are we. I close my eyes and though it’s dark my vision is overwhelmed by bright, white light. White light, white heat, I think, like the Velvet Underground. “Hey, you okay?” Anna yells over the music. She seems concerned, side eyeing the guy hard. His grip on my waist tightens, ready to combat the impending cock block. “Fine!” I shout back. “So fine!” She looks unconvinced but I keep dancing. Just keep dancing. “Fantastically fine. So sublime.” I giggle at my alliterative rhyme and suddenly feel dizzy. “I may vomit, though, if that’s okay with everyone.” “If you puke on me, I may not take you home,” Random says, smiling. He’s got a wonderful smile, and I decide I need to go home with him. I’m insanely in need of sex, like now. “You’re not taking her home,” Anna snaps. “I am. Come on, we need to go.” “Stop!” I whine. “I’m okay, I know what I’m doing.” “I seriously doubt that,” she replies. “Come on.” She grabs my arm and I wanna hit her, but the hand on my other arm is being held by Random. “Can I get your number then?” he asks, my hand slipping from his as Anna pulls me away. I shout it as I’m led away from the dance floor, for everyone to hear. “You’re insane,” Anna says when we’re out in the summer night air. She laughs uneasily. I shriek with glee, grabbing her and spinning around until she’s laughing for real. “Glorious, my friend,” I say, out of breath. “Simply glorious.” “Hey!” someone yells behind us. “Hey, wait!” I turn to find Random guy running to catch up with us. Anna links arms with me and starts to walk faster but I stop moving. “What are you doing?” She asks, seeming concerned. “I didn’t quite catch your number,” he says, grinning a beautiful grin. I beam back at him and start to say, “Four-oh-four,” when Anna interrupts. “Look. She’s really drunk and doesn’t know what she’s doing. I can’t let her do this.” “Who the fuck are you?” I snap. “I’m a goddamned adult, I’ll give my number out as I please.” She drops my arm and looks shocked. “I’m just trying to—” “In fact,” I continue, “I don’t think I need to go home with you.” I look to Random and ask, “What’s your name?” “Brett,” he says, still dazzling me with his smile. “You wanna get out of here?” “I do, Brett. I really, really do.” I grab his hand and start running, Anna yelling my name behind us. I laugh as I hear my name ringing out through the night, like the universe is screaming my name. He’s no Jeremy, but in this moment Brett is seriously beautiful to me. I’m already naked and he’s taking off his pants slowly, like he’s trying to titillate me. I’m horny and impatient. “Could you be any slower?” I groan, less sexily and more angrily. He laughs nervously, dropping his jeans to the ground. I stand on his bed and start bouncing, unable to control the energy coursing through my being. Brett stops me by grabbing my legs, and I giggle when he pushes me back onto the mattress. Finally. Release. The next morning I wake up suddenly, in the way you do when you’ve had too much to drink the night before. When you’re still a little intoxicated. When you’re not sure how you got to bed. Then comes the terrifying moment when I realize I don’t know where I am at all, fuck how I got to bed. Whose bed is this? Where is Anna? Where is my bra? “Hey,” some guy says, entering the room. “Morning.” He smiles sort of sweetly at me. I’m no idiot, so I know what went down. “Hi,” I reply. I lie back down and stare at his ceiling. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.” He walks over to the bed and sits down, looking at me like he’s sort of uncomfortable. “Brett,” he says, laughing a little. “Brett,” I repeat. “Where are my clothes?” He gestures around the room, my shit scattered all across the floor. I sigh and get out of the bed, collecting my stuff while I’m shamelessly naked. As I’m hooking my bra back on, Brett asks if I’d like to go get breakfast. “Pancakes or something?” My head is killing me. My brain is spinning, as usual. “I couldn’t bear to eat,” I say to him. “Plus I don’t get breakfast with strangers.” “You just sleep with them?” “When it’s necessary,” I say, shrugging. “Thanks for your services.” “You’re making me feel like a prostitute.” I smile. “Except you give it away for free.” Then I frown when I realize he’s my only way home. But I’ve spent enough time with this man I can’t even remember, of that I am sure. I hold Anna’s heels in my hand as I exit, waving goodbye. I don’t know where I am. I can’t find my way home and I’m pretty sure I can’t call anyone for help. I just walk, barefoot, until I find a bus stop. I sit on the bench and try to make the noise in my head go away. Doesn’t work. It never does. “I just can’t believe you followed a stranger home,” she says. I’ve finally made it back to my side of town, rescued at the bus station...