Then I met a girl living down the hall from where I was staying. She was apparently a prostitute, but we didn't share many personal aspects of our lives. I think we both were respecting one another's privacy for the sake of retaining our own.
We hung out in the hallway, chatting, and she asked for me to take a few pictures of her in her sexy outfit with her cellphone. I obliged, and we ended up walking down to a tiny food mart together. She was talking, and laughing, and showing off her ass (and mine) like we were pieces of walking rental properties.
We bought some Mountain Dew (this may be where my three year long obsession with the sugary caffeinated beverage originated) and some small cigars. She bought some cigarettes, too, and we walked back. We carried the large, condensating bottles of soda on our heads, and I used the moisture on the plastic to cool down my stomach, now revealed with my white cotton undershirt tied up. I was showing so much skin I may as well have been in a bikini. It probably would have covered more and shown less than that getup was flashing.
We relaxed in her room for a while, Jerry Springer the television show of choice. She showed me how to pick seeds and stems from the weed, and she emptied the cigar, making us a blunt that she shared with me.
Once she showed me how to inhale, I was higher than an eagle in a jet plane.
Leaning over and peering into her eyes I whispered, "Am I...HIGH?" she told me that oh, yeah, I was. I was coughing and sputtering so much I could barely stand it. I hated it. All I wanted was...that Mountain Dew over on the other side of the bed. A drink. I wanted a drink.
I began to get out of bed and almost fell over. Using the bed as a leaning post, I slowly made my way to the opposite side of the bed...and sat down on a chair.
I had completely forgotten about my drink.
I sat there, grinning like an idiot, and held my arms in a strange position, exclaiming, "I'm a Marrionette!" and I laughed.
Remembering my drink, I looked over at the soda bottle and cups. "I'm not gonna spill it." I told myself. Out loud. Over and over as my lack of coordination made it dreadfully difficult to control my hands and pour my own drink. "I'm not gonna SPILL IT." I exclaimed as both hands held the bottle and poured the bubbly drink into the disposable cup.
I succeeded, and drank some, but soon got up and saw myself in the mirror. I began to tear up.
I thought to myself that I was a bad, bad person, that my parents must hate me, and that I was the worst daughter to ever have lived.
I laid down on the bed, and zoned. Finally, still unnervingly high but bored to death of Jerry Springer, I left and went to my room. I had changed rooms by now; they fixed me up in a corner room facing the street - with dry carpet.
I curled up in a fetus position on my bed and slept. I woke up and threw up in the toilet.
Feeling extremely lonely in this state, I wandered down the stairs and asked the lady at the desk if I could sit in the back room. She just seemed annoyed by me, and I sat by the door when she wouldnt let me back. I finally crept upstairs to my room and slept the high off. But it was very strange.
I'm lucky no one found me while I was both mentally unwell and high as I was. I would have been a prime target, and wouldn't have fought anything.
It was a weird experience, but certainly not a bad one. I saw things more clearly when I was high, but things were also enlarged to grand proportions. Most of my cares, those that I had, dropped out of my mind, but I saw myself in both a funny, happy light, and a sad and depressed one.
It was a good thing that this happened when it did. It would probably prove to be the only mental break I would get for a very long time.
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