I was going through my roommate’s socks in the dark looking for his stash when the lights came on. He grabbed my arm, and spun me around shouting, “What the hell are you doing?” He didn’t tell anyone else, but when he calmed down he made me promise I would get myself straightened out. I promised I would, but I didn’t mean it. I was hooked and would do anything to get more dope.
I’m pathetic and despicable. I hate myself.
Back in my room at the fraternity, after one of my meetings at Eight Ball's apartment, I lay on the bed trying to make sense of what was happening to me. I had the window shade down and didn’t know whether it was day or night, nor did I care. I figured out I’d rather be stoned than spend all my time being serious and unhappy.
Where the hell did I leave my stash? I don’t even know what I’m doing – some genius. Maybe I’m not real. Maybe my whole life is a fantasy. Maybe some Game Master is playing with my head. I can’t go on like this.
The truth is that except when I’m having sex, I feel like crap—emotionally impotent. I’m oversexed. When I’m having sex, I’m in control. I’m a big man. My Dialectic Spiritualism Religion is a load of crap. I’m a load of crap. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now because I’m depressed and feel so damn sorry for myself, and no one else cares. No one gives a shit about me.
This is ridiculous. I’ll smoke some more weed or snort some cocaine so I don’t have to have these thoughts any more. I have a little stashed away from Sunday’s football game, or was that last week. I don’t remember. I only have a little money left from my winnings and can’t afford to buy any more coke, or get caught trying to steel someone else’s stash again. Now where did I put that stuff? I remember wrapping it up and putting my precious parcel in the dresser, or did I put it in the closet? My God, I hope I didn’t leave my stash in someone else’s room by mistake.
Why am I lying on this damn bed shaking and sweating? I stink and I need a shower, but I haven’t got the energy to drag my sorry ass down the hall to the bathroom. I can’t find my stash. I won’t be able to function. Everyone is laughing at me. My nose is running.
Finally, I feel sleep coming on. I’m so tired. I think I’m dreaming. I’m a fly caught in a web of shredded marijuana leaves. I want to get away, but my wings are entangled. The only way to get loose is to break my wings as I struggle to get free, but then I will lose the part of me that can climb higher and higher and feel great.
What should I do? My Quanta, the sub atomic particles of my essence, are colliding with the little that is left of my senses. I’m shrinking. I’m stuck in a rut of my own making. Slowly, I lift one foot off the bed to the floor and try to stabilize myself, but that isn’t helping. I must be having some kind of drug-induced reaction, or am I in a trance. Who’s that whispering? I can hear you. I know you’re talking about me.
Oh God, I hope I remember where I put my stash.
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