Give Me All The Drugs
All of them. Even the useless ones. Just take them out of the bottle and hand them to me, and I’ll handle the rest. One of each please. I like variety and I have a long list of psychosomatic needs.
Something for apathy. I want something that makes me care about more things, or something that makes me care about things more, either one. I feel nothing and feel like nothing and I want to not feel nothing or feel like nothing. I understand that feeling nothing is technically feeling something, nothing being something, but I am not necessarily certain that understanding that helps. I also understand that the world is gigantic and I am very tiny. I understand that being tiny in a gigantic world is not an advantage. I understand that most people do not acknowledge their tininess. I understand Meursault and I’ve been told it’s not normal.
Something for focus. I want something that makes me alert and capable and more like a fully formed human being rather than a sea slug, more or less. I want to do something from beginning to end without feeling sad or pointless and I want to feel three-dimensional. I don’t mean like a “functioning member of society” who gets to work on time with an iPad and a skim latte and occasionally donates to a charity he never read the brochure for, I mean I want to feel like a person. Like a me.
(I should let you know I stole that last line from Requiem For A Dream. What a good book. I wish I could have written it. I wish I could have written something like it. I wish I could have written something in general. I wish I could sit down at the keyboard and make something happen without getting paralyzed by a lurking sense of futility. I wish I would stop plagiarizing lines.)
I need something to make the room less dark.
Something for my broken heart. Something to repair the torn muscle and jolt it awake. I understand it might be a hard fix because it has been stretched across a cutting board and flattened by a meat hammer. Now it is masticated and raw. I scooped it up and placed it back inside of me that way.
And something for movement. Nothing stands still on the atomic level but I’m still standing still and I don’t get it. We are made up of so many things, so many, our bodies are made up of whole worlds of crackling subatomic particles and it doesn’t make sense that we’re these organic sacks just sitting there, shifting in our chairs. Why can’t we move like subatomic particles? Why do the particles get to have all the fun? I want to ride on a particle. I want to attach myself to a proton and coast around forever, pretend the earth is one dangerously magnified atom electrified and expanding with our endless vibrations.
Just give me something, anything. I’m getting tired and I want something to happen.
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n the future, a grandmother’s crowning achievement—the thing she never forgets to remind her grandchildren about—will be that Justin Bieber retweeted her once.
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