Drugs are supposed to accomplish three simple goals:
1) Make you feel better
2) Make you less socially awkward
3) Make you seem cooler than you actually are
All of these desired outcomes are fallacious, because drugs only do one thing. They exacerbate the flaws in your character that keep people from liking you. All the creaky mechanisms humans use to protect themselves from exposing their true nature shut off when they manipulate their brain chemistry with controlled substances.
I spend the vast majority of my time not being myself. I avoid expressing my true feelings if I think they will alienate others. I stifle my ego so as not to come off as self-absorbed. Due to the prevalence of the lie expressed earlier, I occasionally assume that drugs can help me sublimate these less appropriate behavioral patterns.
This almost never happens. Instead, I succumb to various and sundry fits of madness. I do everything in my power to avoid drugs, but in the rare instances when I fail myself, the results are embarrassing enough that I feel compelled to share them on the internet.
There’s a 20-minute period where coke makes me feel like I could lift an elephant with my pinky finger. I’m strong, attractive, vaguely articulate, less bald, thinner and capable of looking clever while gritting my teeth. After that, I want to crawl into a plastic grocery bag and live there forever. No one makes a grocery bag big enough for an adult sized human being, so I imagine fashioning one out of multiple bags through some sort of sewing procedure, or perhaps melting the bags together to form one Mega Bag.
There was a brief period of my life where I wrote a blog for a small porn company in the San Fernando Valley. One of the many perks of working in the adult film industry was getting to go on location to witness strangers doing their various fuckings and suckings in person. Due to my unwillingness to drive to the desert location and my company’s disinterest in saving money, I was given limo service to and from the set. The one caveat to my good fortune was that I had to share the ride with one of the actresses in the film.
She had just started in the industry and was eager, friendly, generous and a major fan of shoving things up her nose. On our way back from a 14-hour day of filming, she decided to indulge her habit in front of me. Not knowing that I am prone to embarrassing myself after sampling narcotics, she offered me a “toot” or “snort” or “bump” or whatever people call it when they want to sound experienced.
“I got this stuff at this, like, beach party bonfire thing last night. I’m flying back home and can’t finish it all by myself. Have as much as you want.”
Wisely, the comely young lass appealed to my altruistic nature. I had no choice but to partake. I engaged her with a variety of fabricated tales of sexual conquest for 20 minutes, then accidentally snuck in a real story of being incapable of getting hard the first time I was with a woman.
After dropping the actress off, the limo driver turned to me and sternly suggested I stay away from cocaine in the future. Also, he let me know that impotence is nothing to be ashamed of.
I was told I was supposed to be “way chill” after eating a chocolate chip cookie made with THC butter. I ate half and was then informed by my friend Donald that eating that much might make me black out. Even though I was, up to that point, perfectly lucid, I hit a 7.5 on the “Glenn Beck Paranoid Delusion” scale. Do not ever allow another person to tell you what kind of drug experience you will have. These things should happen naturally, like first dates or sodomy. [AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sometime sodomy can occur on a first date, but never without a written letter of consent from both parties’ parents.]
Donald and I proceeded to go to Dodger Stadium, which is as conducive to me having a positive drug experience as putting a Baptist church next to a Planned Parenthood is helpful for community morale. The more people present, the less apt I am to contain my existential dread and fear of human contact. The most troubling aspect of a sporting event is the preponderance of children. Kids have no concept of the fact that their joy terrifies me. I know they will grow up to be just as sad, lonely and devoid of hope as I am right now. Seeing their faces light up when Matt Kemp throws a ball into the outfield is tantamount to being told the time and place that a dog is going to get run over, plus the make and model of the vehicle in question. Add in that there’s nothing you can do about it and you have to watch the whole miserable affair from start to finish.
The only thing keeping me from snapping was that I had no one sitting to my right for the first half of the game. Once the talkative Latino couple arrived to box me in, I started to imagine jumping over the railing. Their joy made me nervous. The crack of the bat made me skittish. The collective body heat of 60,000 people made me choke.
By the Seventh Inning Stretch, I was balling into my $15 “super nachos,” which, by the way, you have to be high to want to eat.
I inhaled cigarette smoke for the first time when I was 18 and coughed so much that my eyes started to water.
You may think alcohol is not an actual drug, but anything that makes me weep while signing Journey songs at karaoke should be classified as such. Drinking makes me sadder than everything except the last scene of Blade Runner. Next time you watch Blade Runner, try getting drunk first. You might end up needing to call a suicide prevention hotline.
Around the time of my last breakup, I came to the conclusion that panic, frustration and erratic emotions are intrinsic to my being and that the only way to prevent the rest of the world from shunning me like former child star Amanda Bynes was to start taking medication.
Zoloft and other anti-depressants served only to render me incapable of feeling anything except a serious need to take a watery shit. Xanax, on the other hand, afforded me a mellow escape from the truth that my father didn’t love me enough, the moon landing was fake and that for the amount of money I spend on renting a studio apartment in Los Angeles, I could pay the mortgage on a three bedroom house in my home town.
Xanax has never and will never make me cry. Unlike the above substances, Xanax makes me docile and content. What does make me cry is the psychiatrist I have to see in order to get my prescription filled. She can’t help asking me every question I don’t want to ask myself. It’s truly heartbreaking that I have to confront my fear one day a month in order to get the drugs I need to allow me to avoid confronting my fear for the other thirty.