So it has happened that I have been entirely cut off from my beloved Xanax. Every physician, dentist, and in fact every illicit pill dealer within convenient walking distance from my home has "cut me off!" in some form or another. Indeed, even entire medical institutions have me on record as being a "drug seeker" whatever the hell that means. Obviously, this has had a profoundly negative effect on my persistent, nagging state of anxiety and to make matters worse, those around me seem to be going out of their way to irritate the hell out of me. My right thumb has been a wrinkled raisin as a result, and I've been torquing my quilt so frequently that it's beginning to fray. All owed to the discourtesy of others in not respecting my highly developed sense of anxiety.
Just the other day the postman left a parcel at my doorstep, knocking then hurriedly scurrying away like a rat dressed in a pale blue uniform. I regarded the package left behind with great suspicion until I cautiously opened it and much to my relief found a pound of homemade Christmas fudge from Katie's stupid friend (I erroneously surmised based off the consistency and faint almond smell that it was in fact plastic explosives.)
Eating an entire pound of fudge in ten minutes does little to boost one's energy, so after throwing the box and accompanying card in the outside trash bin, (and confiscating the $20 gift card to Bed Bath & Beyond that had accompanied it,) I plodded towards the corner gas station to purchase myself something to boost my creative energies. Typically this involves a Swiss cocktail called "Red Bull," which I would typically consume in tandem with, (you certainly guessed it!) several Xanax. Obviously, this was no longer an option. So after purchasing my Red Bull, I searched around the gas station for any product which indicated it would somehow soothe me. The canned soda section contained absolutely nothing, and my stomach wretched at the thought of more candy. I scanned the store interior for the pumpmistress, (who was in fact a young girl who was either pregnant or consumed inorganic vegetables, I was unable to tell.) She was outside, talking on her cell phone and smoking.
She looked me over as I approached, rolling her eyes at whatever the person on the other line had to say. I asked "Do you have any products which soothe, rather than stimulate?" Her eyes grew wide and, recalling last week's mishap, I clarified "I need something to remedy the side effects of this Red Bull." She rolled her eyes once again, dismissed the idiot on the other end of the phone, and accompanied me back inside the store.
"We have cigarettes." she said in a dull monotone that led me to believe she was entirely disinterested in both my personal plight and her career as a pumpmistress. Now, I have been led to believe by the tobacco industry that cigarettes are dangerous, all the better to cultivate a macho, rebellious image with. But then I considered my exclusive consumption of healthy organic foods from Earth's bosom, and recalled that some of the world's greatest authors have been smokers, and I was convinced. Perhaps it would be Xanax like in it's effects.
So I left the store with a package of Virginia Slims (the pumpmistress had explained after an extended period of questioning that this was the sole marque of cigarette that was certified organic. She continued to be dismissive and curt even after I genteelly congratulated her on her pregnancy.) Upon arriving home, I laid out my cigarettes and matches next to my notebook as I felt the nervousness setting in. I wanted to write, but my hands were shaking. But after enjoying my very first cigarette, that nervousness gave way to a sense of energy and calm unlike I had ever experienced, and I wanted more.
Four cigarettes in, I began to feel a crescendoing sense of nausea, and immediately suspected Katie's stupid friend had furnished us with tainted fudge, the senile old coot. I had another cigarette to further soothe myself, to no avail. The nausea was rapidly rising, I literally felt green and knew I was about to vomit. And vomit I did.
Unfortunately, the forceful expulsion occurred entirely without warning, and I had no time to clear away my beloved notebook nor my newly beloved cigarettes. Black, likely toxic fudge spewed forth, ruining my life's work to date and along with it disrupting the cigarettes I had so lovingly laid out. This catastrophe is directly traceable to either the negligence or malice of Katie's stupid friend. I suspect both. Be certain that the instant I mustered the nerves to undo myself from the cozy wrappings of my quilt, I picked the lock to Katie's room, seized her laptop, and wrote the most cathartic, abusive, yet genteel poison pen email ever explaining both the nature of her misdeeds, as well as the fact that neither Katie nor I wish any further contact with her.
Oh yes, and I sent it from Katie's email account.
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