I read somewhere that the body has no memory for pain. That’s why women can go through childbirth over and over again. I think maybe it’s true, because something’s messing with my head, telling me the comedown wasn’t so bad and didn’t you have a good time? It was worth it, right? Come on, body, my brain’s saying, you had fun, didn’t you? Let’s do it all again!
I’m having a schiz-out. All I want is for the weekend to come round again.
Next time I gobble down chemicals and my dopamine levels plummet to a dopa-minus, I may change my answer, but now, it all feels in the past. It’s fucked-up crazy shit.
What am I doing?
It’s totally worth it, isn’t it? I believe it. Sort of. Goddamnit.
In school on Monday, I can barely talk. The text in my book is a blurry word jumble. My head’s a desolate thought graveyard, except for two that kick and scream to be heard:
How long until I can do drugs again?
Are you out of your mind?
Finn drapes an arm around my shoulder. I lean into him and could drift off to sleep, right here, right now … I could fall… Paluk eyes us from the front of the class. Wake up. Got to wake up.
“I was thinking, this weekend we could hang out, just the two of us,” Finn says.
“I think that’s a perfect idea.”
“I’ve got these new pills. I’ve heard they’re amazing.”