So, Yeah... I Don't Do Drugs Anymore.

I mean, I was never a heavy addict, or anything. Never did heroin, or meth. Tried crack cocaine once. That was… yeah. But I was only sober for eight months between that and when Eddie, an old buddy of mine, introduced me to something called K3. Against my better judgement, I took him up on the offer. “You heard of K2, bro?” he said. He was already high. “Spice, yeah. Synthetic weed." “It’s not weed, though.” “I know. That’s why I don’t fuck with it.” “Not synthetic *weed*, it’s synthetic *THC*.” “Yeah, okay. Synthetic weed.” “No, Eddie, synthetic *THC*.” “Eddie, you’re fucking high. I’m not taking anything you’re on." Eddie held up a little bag of pills. Blue and white pills that glimmered in the light of the TV. “What’s that?” I said. “This is K3.” “Then why were you calling it K2?” “K2 is the name of the drug. K3 is the brand.” “Why would you call the brand name K2?” “You got me, but I don’t want any, anyway.” He held out the pill bag. “You try it. “I thought you said you was high, I thought you meant the K3.” “I tried one, and it was nice, but then I got really paranoid, so I took another one to feel better, and that didn’t work, so I took two more, and now I’m *way* too high.” “Okay, *way* too high?” “*Way* too high. Take a pill, and then you’ll understand.” I looked at the pills. “Take one, and you’ll see why I don’t want anymore.” I still hesitated. “Not to alarm you, but I don’t feel right, and I can’t drive, so if I have to get a, you know… wash, I’m gonna need you to drive me.” A *wash* is something you ask for when you are way too high. It’s a way of correcting the chemical imbalance that your drugs have caused. The people who give you the *wash* won’t tell you what’s in it, but they’ll tell you that it won’t get you high. It always gets me high, though. “Eddie, who am I supposed to call for a wash?” “I think I wrote the number down. Look, on the coffee table.” I looked on the coffee table, and there was a piece of newspaper torn on both sides, like it had been ripped out of the paper, with the number scrawled in pencil. It was also marred by crossed-out doodles. “Am I supposed to take the number *and* the doodles?” “Yes, I need you to do something for me,” said Eddie. “What’s up?” “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “What’s up?” “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “What’s up?” “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “What’s up?” “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “What’s up?” “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “What’s up?” “I am Mister Pineapple Hat,” he said. “Okay, Mister Pineapple Hat, I’m getting really bored with you not answering my questions.” “I need you to do something for me,” he said, with no change in his tone. “I need *you* to do something for *me*,” I said. “I need you to answer my questions." “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “Eddie, are you okay? You’re not acting right.” “I *am* right,” he said. “I am exactly right.” *Am I right?,* I thought. *Was he acting right? Did he look right?* *Of course he didn’t look right. He was high as fuck.* *What the fuck is this drug?* I thought. *This drug? Was this K3, or was this K2? Was K3 the drug, or was it the brand?* *Was it the other way around? Was K3 the brand? Hence the “3” in the name. K3… K3…* *What the fuck is this drug? Can I take it? Did I take it? Am I high already? Am I acting right?* *No. Of course I’m acting right. I had a conversation with Eddie. I’m the one having a conversation with him right now, after all.* *I wonder if he’s OK. He’s been acting strange.* *Am I being paranoid?* *I don’t know. Am I?* *Wait, what were we talking about?* *Was it Eddie? Am I talking to Eddie right now? Is he OK? He’s been acting strange.* *What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I high already? Did I take the K3? Did I take two of them? Did I take three? Am I taking it now? Am I talking to myself right now?* *Wait… what was I doing?* I looked around. I was in a bathroom. I didn’t know where, or why, or how I got there. “What the fuck?” I said. I opened the bathroom door, and I was back at Eddie’s house. The K3 pills were still on the coffee table. Right next to the newspaper with the number on it. I didn’t remember if I called the number. I didn’t remember if I took a pill. I didn’t remember if I had a *wash,* or if I was still high, or if it had even worn off. It was 2:28 am. I passed out on the couch, hoping I would be alright in the morning. I wasn’t alright in the morning. I wasn’t even there in the morning. I was in my car, driving down the street. I had the K3 bag on the passenger seat. It was half full. I didn’t know how long I had been driving. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t know what day it was. I looked in the rear view, and I saw that my eyes were black as coal. I pulled over, and called the number. “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” I gave them the directions I saw on my phone, and an hour or so later, up pulled a van. Black as coal, with spotlessly clean windows. A man stepped out of the driver's side door, and a woman stepped out of the passenger's side. He was wearing a black suit. She was wearing a black dress. They both wore sunglasses. “Can I get your name?” The man asked, with a smile. “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “Tough shit. I ain’t giving anything to somebody I don’t know.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “Listen, buddy. I don’t want you to get any more confused than you are. If that’s possible. So I’m gonna need you to give me your name.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “Sir, I… Sir, I think you might be high.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “Sir, I… Sir, *please* stop saying that.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “Listen here, you fucking jerk-off. You either give me your name, or you can walk anywhere but here, and get a *wash* anywhere but from me.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “Oh, fuck it. *Imogen*, give this man a *wash*.” The woman hunched under the driver's side window of my car. She stuck a needle in my neck, and pressed a little plunger down. “Do you feel any better?” She said. I looked at her hand, and the needle was still pressed down. I looked in her eyes, and they were black as coal. “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “I… I just gave you one.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “I *just* gave you a fucking *wash*.” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “I *just* fucking… You had *one* already. You don’t need *another fucking…*” “You know my name. You know why I’m calling. I need a *wash*.” “*FUCK! *” “… I need a *wash*.” “I’m gonna give you another fucking *wash*!” she screamed, and stuck the needle into my arm. Pressed the plunger down. I looked in the rear view. My eyes were the colour of the sky. I looked at my phone. It was 8:04. I looked back at the road. It wasn’t the same road. I didn’t recognize it. I didn’t recognize any of the

So, Yeah... I Don't Do Drugs Anymore.

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