19

I’m on my sofa, unintentionally high. 45 mg of codeine, with muscle relaxants, and aspirin, on account of what the doctor deduced, in approximately 4 seconds, was a muscle strain in my back. That was yesterday and I’ve essentially been quasi-high ever since, and very, VERY relaxed in the muscle department. And, most importantly, not in excruciating pain.

Erin came home about 48 hours ago, to an expected amount of fanfare. It was wonderful and also vaguely anti-climactic. Two small things were unexpected: (1) she is somewhat less attractive than I remember, and (2) she did not bring me home anything. I keep telling myself that the latter is not really important, though I think such a self-statement is a bit of a lie, for lack of a better word.

Typing is very easy when your body feels like liquid.

I’m both content and sad right now.

Emptier than usual.

I found out some unpleasant things about Erin’s “boyfriend.” Like, he supposedly cheated on his wife, and that when she found out she kicked him out and filed for divorce (he told Erin they “grew apart”). And that he was sleeping with her as recently as 3 months ago, and may still be (though he and Erin have been, as per his terminology, “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” since the end of January). I find these things, particularly the former, morally repugnant. I can’t imagine liking this guy. I told Erin about these things, and though she’s not angry with me for researching/revealing, she’s decided to “ignore” the information, and try to forget about it. She’s adamant that “Nick’s not a cheater.” I had nothing to say to that.

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I’m telling myself that I’m not going to go to the mall tomorrow at lunch, to “run into” Mike. I’ve been thinking about him more than usual now that I have opiates in my bloodstream. It may be because he asked Monique for my phone number 3 days ago though, as you may remember, I already gave it to him via e-mail a couple of weeks ago. This sent me into a kind of frenzy that I know I’m still experiencing, but the codeine has numbed everything. Yesterday I was lying on my living room floor, and I had to keep repeating his phone number over and over in my head, like it was a song whose chorus I couldn't stop humming. I realised that the last two digits (19) were the same as the last two in my cell phone number, which struck me as symbolic and beautiful as I stared, entranced, at the paint dots on my ceiling. Now I recognise how pathetic such an idea is, but still

yeah. again, can’t finish this. too liquid. too high. computer screen moving away from my field of vision, though i don’t know where it goes. it's taken me, like, 50 minutes to get this far.

my mind, and hands, are water.

Mike is a Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese from McDonalds. I know I shouldn’t want it, it’s processed and unhealthy and awful, but I want want want it so bad. I want to want salad, I want to not want to be high. (Did I mention he smokes marijuana, like, daily? I HATE that), but I don’t want salad, I don’t want to not be high on prescription painkillers. The heart wants what it wants, right?