Justifying My Drug Problem

“Uh God. Where is it?”

My brother is crashed out on the table, his face splashed into his Rice Chex.

“WHERE IS IT?”

Bubbles rise out of the milk and he lifts his head ever so slightly. Soggy Chex adhere to his forehead like soggy bilsters. I find the box and shake it over my hand. Nothing.

“Did you take the last one?”

Andrew responds with a gaping mouth. My father walks into the room sniffling incessantly and rubbing his eyes. I wheel on him.

“Did you take the last one?”

“I had to. It was two-thirty in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. And I had to work at seven.”

“Well, did you get more?’

“Didn’t have time.”

“Didn’t have time? I’m dying here!”

Now I know why crack houses look like they do. My consistently happy family environment has quickly dissolved around the soothing narcotic that is Claratin-D. The path to a slaughterhouse conclusion for our familial ties has been hastened by the fact that three-quarters of my family is suffocating through a mask of their own snot. And thanks to the Midwest cornering the market on meth production, most retailers will only sell two boxes at a time. They’re operating under a strongly erroneous assumption that meth junkies are more dangerous than us Claratin addicts. The only difference is we have all our teeth and our dealers own Congress.

There is no more pathetic feeling than being laid up with “allergies,” yet since my return to the Rock I've been destroyed from the lungs up. I’m a big fan of breathing, can't say enough about it. I highly recommend it to all my friends -- and not in that Woody Harrelson O2 bar way. Good old-fashioned, atmospherically-derived oxygen. Best there is. And when I don’t get it, I’m not pleasant to be around. So, in the best interest of the world around me, I’ve turned into quite the hermit since returning home. People generally don’t like being choked by perfect strangers. Ask the Wal-Mart checkout girl who’d only allow me the two boxes of Claratin.

And what’s really silly is the Claratin only almost kind of helps. It’s so barely effective that it’s bordering on a superstition; the little pill has given me good results before. Break the pattern and invite the wrath of the gods. Only desperation inspires this kind of superstitious thinking. Just look at the little old ladies who think molesting slot machines is going to help them get that last bonus logo that gives them the fifteen free spins. I’ve seen nickel machines who get more affection in a night than I have in a quarter century of life.

But now I understand. I empathize with their line of thinking. They want so much to believe that what they’re doing makes a difference. Just like I want so much to breathe. So, I alternate sleeping on the couch in the front room and my bed in the back of the house. If one night happens to be better than the one before it, it’s because I changed where I slept, and I’ll ride that until proved otherwise. I shower twice a day, not because I think I’m dirty, but because I can feel those allergens on me like the blood on Lady MacBeth’s hands. It’s there. I can feel them. Don’t tell me they’re not there. Out. Out damn snot.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when removing your eyeball to ease congestion has become not only a logical course of action, but a reasonable one. I have a pencil in the corner of one right as I write this. It kind of helps. But one twist of the wrist and I could make it all better. Who knows? I could make the eye-patch work. It’s unique. Unique is marketable. Might do hell to my batting average though.

Ugh. Damn it. Usually I revise anything I write, but that’s just not gonna work for me here. I am clearly not getting enough oxygen to the appropriate neurons. That will probably do more to illustrate my point (if I have one) than anything my deficient (at this time) intellect can put down here. All I can think about is my nuisance of an eyeball.

Vile jelly.

Say no to drugs kids.