When I was in college, everyone really liked Weeds. It had just come out and it was kind of groundbreaking — a suburban widow, complete with perfectly imperfect hair and a seemingly endless closet full of Going Out tops, driving a Range Rover and selling pot.
Whenever someone in class talked about it, I rolled my eyes. I knew there was no way she was making a living — in a posh suburb, no less — on dimebags sold to PTA moms.
I knew exactly how much money you could make selling weed because I had been doing it. And…
I can still vividly recall the look on my high school history teacher’s face when I raised my hand and asked why the Lebanese history books stopped at 1975. It was 1992 and my mind could not fill the gap with the obvious: No one wanted to talk about the Lebanese Civil War.
I was born at the end of the war and by the time I turned five, it was over. Business was booming with reconstruction projects. The Lebanese joie de vivre was back in full swing. I spent the years of my youth dancing on the Beirut rooftops…
It all started when my best friend, who I’ll call Bill, began dating this charming fellow, who I’ll call Rodrigo.
Rodrigo came across like sentient FOMO, a man-beast who exuded fun, sex, and childlike excitement about where the night could take us — which was scary, but intriguing. At first, I was skeptical of the relationship; I didn’t want my friend getting caught up with the wrong crowd.
Because, well… drugs are always a slippery slope to cartel kidnappings, shooting up in a Porta Potty next to an IHOP at 4 a.m., …
A psychiatrist was once so surprised to learn that I was a regular recreational drug user and yet seemed high-functioning and successful (these terms being relative to the literary world — not necessarily meaning “able to pay rent”) that he asked to make me a case study for his group of medical residents. I don’t know which of us found the other a more perplexing specimen. I was like: Dude, you’re a physician — do you seriously believe you don’t have colleagues who are addicts? Maybe doctors are so routinely lied to about drug and alcohol intake that they have…
“Fuck you,” he said rising his Colt to my chest.
That’s it, I thought. This is where I end.
The gun was intensely black, its barrel only a few inches from me. This is what it feels like, I thought. I wondered if the bullet would cut across my body. I wondered if I would fall on my back under the force of the metal piercing through my flesh and hitting my bones and arteries. Maybe I would drop on my knees or take air like in movies. …
Every few weeks, we post an open thread with a brief writing prompt. Here are some highlights from this week’s thread, on drugs that are not drugs.
I don’t think I loved him, but if I had to base my feelings for him solely off my addiction to his lips — to his kiss, their shape, the way they hugged his smile back — then he was my everything. — Monica
Cycling is my drug, administered via singletrack trail. Nothing else gives me such pleasure, pain, hope, despair and freedom. — Mark
In 200 words or less, tell us about a place, time, or object that has a drug-like effect on you, though it is not actually a drug. Maybe it’s legal, maybe it’s not. Is this a not-drug your parents would approve of? Do you take this drug often? Once a week, once a minute? Maybe you’re not addicted, but you could be — easily.
Everyone’s got their drug. Even if no one else would recognize it as such.
Share your not-drug as a response below. We’ll use them to post a compilation of non-drugs Human Parts.
It was three in the morning. The streets were quiet. The radio was off. The only sound was the heater, blowing dry air into the cab.
“What are you doing back there, reading your e-mails?”
I looked up from my phone at the driver. He was wearing a hunting cap, the kind with red and black checked ear-flaps. Some gray hair stuck out over his collar.
“My friend just texted. He wanted to know if he should come to the party,” I said. “I was just telling him it was too late, I left.”
“Oh, I see.”
After our performance art class, Linda and I went to a bar in Chinatown that is known for serving +100 types of beer. Seated at the corner booth beside us were a man and woman having an extremely audible, dramatic conversation about the contents of the guy’s phone, and their seemingly failing relationship. The girl became increasingly aggravated as her boyfriend simultaneously texted people and denied acts of infidelity. She took the phone out of his hands and began scrolling through text messages and emails. …
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