Am I Here?(Stoned to dream)

     The problem with most drug users is they don't find their own lives interesting until the moment they first get high. I believe the true gateway to drug abuse is not using marijuana to begin with then graduating to something more intense, but the fact one may perceive a sober life as boring and ordinary. Just because a drug put a smile on your face, doesn't mean your life is any more extraordinary than it was the moment before you decided to inhale or ingest it. No matter how one may deny it, our lives are more exciting than most of us tend to accept.
     The day I turned eighteen years old I bought my first pack of cigarettes. I had heard most tobacco smokers say how much they hated their first cigarette. This always perplexed me, to be honest, because if that were true, then why would they continue on smoking and bitch about how hard it was to quit? So with that question in mind, I walked to the park near my house after getting home from school with the pack of smokes in my pocket, holding a birthday card sealed in an envelope from my aunt, and the intention that if I did not enjoy my first cigarette in the very least, I'd throw away the rest of the cigs, never to buy another again. At the park I sat on top of a lunch table in an empty family barbecue area. After three attempts, I lit my first cigarette with a match and inhaled the tobacco's smoke. Lo and behold, I didn't cough, not once. As I continued smoking the rest of the cig, I opened the envelope, and read the card from my aunt. Inside the card there was a hundred dollar bill.
     Fan-fucking-tastic the smell was, and fan-fucking-tastic the nicotine hit felt. There's nothing else more relaxing than the first nicotine hit, not even the ones after it. It's a buzz most likely comparable to smoking opium -- the only difference being that nicotine euphoria can only be experienced once, while opiateheads get it with every hit. When I had hopped off the table and took a few steps towards the walking path leading to the parks entrance, I didn't walk a straight line for five steps. That was it, every cigarette after that is not, and will never be like that first.
     Marijuana is a completely different. Compared with my first cig, my experience of the green smoke was the complete opposite.
     Mario picked me up from my house.
     "I thought you already had it on you, man," I said as soon as I sat in his car.
     He started driving immediately, and said, "Why's that, cause I'm Mexican?"
     "No," I said. "But if you want to get all racially butt-hurt and stereotypical, maybe I should sit in the backseat like an uppity yuppie." I then said in an aristocratic tone, "Jose, take me to my drug dealer on the way to the whorehouse. I'll give you but a little for yourself. You are driving a limo, you know, so only half a line of coke for you."
     "We're gonna go pick it up, Olavi," Mario said, reaching for his cellphone. "You wanna smoke, right?"
     "Yes, but why you need me with you when you buy it? Wouldn't the dealer be more comfortable if you're by yourself?"
     "Dude, we're buying an eighth, not an ounce," Mario informed. "Plus, it's cool I not only provide for your first high, I think it's fun you come with me."
     "How is it more fun?" I asked, confused.
     "It's fucking male bonding, puta." He searched for a contact on his cellphone, pressed send.
     "Shit," I said, "want to play catch too?"
     As he waited for the person to answer on the phone, he said to me, "Good idea, maybe after we're done smoking." His phone call was answered. "Hey, man, it's Mario. How you been?" There was a pause as he listened to the person on the other line. "Good to hear. I'm lookin' for an eighth." A short pause. "Cool, bro. Be there in about five, maybe less. Is that cool?" Mario gave me a wink and nod. "Alright, be there soon."
     He put the phone down in his lap.
     "It's that easy?" I asked Mario.
     "Uh, duh," he said. "And hardly any waiting in line. No reservations required."
     "Wow," I said, astonished. "Mexicans are truly efficient."
     "The guy's white, moron," Mario corrected. "And you know what that means?"
     "We're going to white suburbia where we'll get pulled over. Don't worry, Mario, I'll do all the talking."
     "No, you idiot, we're going to the trailer park down the road from my house. The one behind El Rancho. What I was trying the say is this guy's cheap with his shit. We're not really getting a full eighth, but it's great quality, especially for a first-timer like you."
     "Is he half-white, like me?" I asked.
     "No. Total blue-eyed white-trash blond. He ain't cool to hang around with though. I think he breaks into homes, cause I heard he's always trying to sell people new TV's and Playstations."
     "Damn," I said. "Talk about breaking the stereotypical mold."
     "You know, now that I think about it, I think he's the one who stole my car last year," Mario said.
     "That was a real classic," I said. "Now you're driving this shit which has no dashboard lights, or even a radio."
     A few minutes later Mario parked his car in front of a double-wide manufactured home in the trailer park. The white dude came out, leaned on Mario's car door, and money and weed were exchanged in an instant with a "Hello, thanks," and "Goodbye." Before I knew it, we were headed back to my house. I didn't say a word the whole drive back. In all, honesty, I was nervous leading up to the drug deal, but when it was over I was happy it was so easy and uneventful.
     "Whoa," I uttered when Mario parked his car in front of my house. "It's like I lost my virginity, even though I'm still actually a virgin."
     "Yeah, man, welcome to the frontier, a new beginning," Mario said. He sat silent for a second, looking at me. "This reminds me of something."
     "Like what?" I asked.
     "Remember when we went to Great America our last year of Middle School?" He asked.
     "Yeah," I replied. "What about it?"
     He tapped my shoulder with his hand, and said, "That was when you finally road an upside-down roller coaster for the first time. The Demon, you know, with the two loops after the first drop. Remember how you were as we were headed up to the drop?"
     "Yeah, crying like a bitch," I admitted.
     "And when the ride was over, what was the first thing you fucking said to me?"
     "Oh, yeah," I said, then recited the memory. "'Mario, let's do it AGAIN!'"
     "Exactly, Olavi. Sometimes the danger is merely an illusion."
     So with my fear slightly deterred by what Mario had said, I stood in the backyard of my house, looking around at the cracks between the fence's board, seeing if any of my neighbors were in their yards as Mario sat in the patio chair, rolling the blunt.
     "Don't be all paranoid, man," he said before licking the swisher paper. "None of them are home at this time. They're at work, and their kids are in school."
     I asked, "You think a cop would smell it if he were driving by?"
     "Jesus Christ, fucker," he blurted. "You're paranoid before you even get high. I swear, all you first-timers are all the same. No, Olavi. No one is gonna stop to smell the pot. Pigs and people got better things to do when going by the front of your house."
     He finished rolling the blunt, lit the bic lighter, and held its fire under the seem he had just licked.
     "Why you do that?" I asked. "You might burn it all."
     Mario chuckled, and said, "It won't all burn. It's to make sure it's sealed all the way so we can smoke it better." He then held it up to me. "Are you ready?"
     I looked around one more time. I didn't hear anyone else in close proximity to my house; we were alone, and all seemed calm and peaceful, as if it were meant to be. I turned back to Mario and saw he had already lit the blunt and was toking on it. He inhaled, held the smoke inside his lungs for a few seconds, then blew it all out. The smell immediately came to my nostrils, as if beckoning, calling me to embrace it's soft, silk smooth euphoria.
     "Come on, sit," Mario said, reaching over to pull the other patio chair closer to him. "Sit right next to me, man. Here you go."
     I sat down. For a second I only looked down at the lit blunt held in between Mario's thumb and forefinger.
     "Take it, man," he said. "Before it goes out."
     I took hold of it with my thumb and forefinger, and just like being on a rollercoaster about to be pulled down that first drop by earth's gravity, my lips went around the receiving end of the blunt and toked a mouthful, took the blunt away from my mouth, and inhaled fast. And holding the smoke in my lungs, I thought, Fuck it, then proceeded to toke on the blunt more, doubling the amount of smoke inside my lungs already. I then blew it all out and coughed profusely.
     "Damn, Olavi, not so much," Mario said. "Save some for me." He took hold of the blunt again.
     I coughed for almost half a minute. Mario continued to smoke.
     When my coughing fit was over, I said, "The fuck, man. I didn't even cough that much the first time I had a cigarette." I coughed a few more times before reaching for the blunt again.
     "Wow, really?" Mario asked, handing me the blunt. "Everyone I know coughs when they first try a cigarette. Hell, I fucking threw up."
     I took a few more puffs of the blunt, and had another coughing fit as I handed it back to Mario. I then stood up from the chair, and spit in the grass.
     "Don't worry, man, you'll get use to it," Mario informed. "The coughing fits get less and less the more you smoke."
     "You actually barfed the first time you had tobacco?" I asked.
     "Yeah. Made me all light headed. Got dizzy and shit. Threw up in a parking lot." Mario started to laugh as he remembered. "Almost spilled all my chunks on the hood of someone's Benz."
     "The first time I had a cigarette it felt hella nice," I said. "The nicotine just hits you like that." I snapped my fingers. "In a manner of seconds. What about THC, man, how long does it take before you're high?"
     "Well, are you high now?"
     "Um, to be honest, no. Let me see." I put my arms out to my side and walked a straight line as if I were being tested for a DUI. I achieved it without faltering in the slightest. "I guess not," I said.
     "Come sit back down," Mario said. "Have some more."
     "No, man," I replied, sitting back in the chair, motioning away the blunt with the wave of a hand. "I don't want to smoke too much, maybe next time."
     Mario leaned back in his chair. He said, "Okay then. Just sit back, relax, and let it come." He continued smoking the blunt. "By the way, what made you change your mind about smoking weed?"
     I stared up at the overcast sky, and said, "Because of Summer."
     "Dude, it's still fucking November," Mario corrected. "Summer's a long time away."
     "Not the season, a girl named Summer," I informed. "She's a coworker of mine. She smokes weed too. I thought if I started smoking, we'd have a reason to hangout. End up sitting in her car after work in the parking lot, have nice conversations, get to know her."
     "Fuck her?" Mario asked.
     I looked back over at him, and said, "Well, eventually, yeah. But, man, you must understand, I'm in love with her. Not a crush kind of thing. I'm saying love-at-first-sight, motherfucker. Can't get her out of my mind kind of love. And we've talked, had a conversation." I leaned closer to Mario. "Summer keeps me up at night for hours, I'm telling you. Shit, there was one whole night I couldn't sleep."
     "Shit," Mario muttered.
     "I've never felt this way about a girl before," I said, shaking my head.
     "How about compared to the girl back in high school?" Mario asked. "What was her name?"
     I began giggling, and said, "Oh, yeah, Ariel. Well, the thing about her was I knew her since I was a child, and never had any feelings for her until the end of my last year in middle-school when one night I had a dream about her. She was basically the very definition of 'dream girl' because I had only fallen in love with her in a lucid dream."
     "What's a lucid dream?" Mario queried.
     "It's where you know you're dreaming. We were with some other people at the park at night, sitting at a lunch table in the middle of the grass. She was singing with a guitar that wasn't in her arms. It felt so real I could feel my heartbeat, and the evening breeze move the hair on my arms. Just like how I feel the breeze on my arms at this moment."
     Mario looked around the backyard. He said, "There's no breeze, man."
     "Seriously, don't fuck with me, Mario," I said. "It's a light breeze. I can feel it."
     "Dude," Mario said, leaning closer in my direction, "you're stoned. I can see it in your eyes. They're bloodshot."
     I looked at my arms, down at my lap, then up at the trees near my house. He was right, there was no wind, like at all. I gazed back at him.
     "Whoa," I muttered. "It's like that fucking dream." I raised my arm up, and moved it around in front of me. "Everything is like... delayed."
     Mario broke out laughing, slapping his knee.
     I looked over at him, smiled, and said, "It's as if you're not there."
     "Okay, man," Mario said, "now how does it feel?"
     "Different," I replied.
     "Have a cigarette. Sit back, relax. There's no reason to worry."
     For what seemed like five minutes, I reached inside my pocket for my pack of cigarettes, slowly took out one cig, and place it between my lips. I felt around inside my pocket for my lighter.
     "Shit," I said, "I lost my lighter."
     "I have it, idiot," Mario said, chuckling.
     "I gave it to you?"
     "Yes, before I rolled the blunt."
     I pondered for a moment, then said, "I...don't remember."
     "Here, I'll light it for you." Mario reached over, held my bic light up to my cigarette, and sparked up the flame. "There you go."
     I began smoking the cigarette, the tobacco smoke smoothly entering and exiting my lungs.
     "See that, Mario," I said.
     "What's that, Olavi?"
     "I didn't even cough."
     He tossed my lighter on my lap. "Don't mean you won't one day get cancer if you'll never quit. So, tell me about Summer."
     "The thing is with Ariel I couldn't achieve the courage to even speak to her throughout all of high school, but with Summer, I felt compelled to speak with her. Like fucking metal to a fucking magnet, man. I'm gonna ask her out on a date, man. I'm serious like an earthquake, I'm gonna ask her out for dinner and a movie the next time I see her at work."
     "You think she'll say, 'yes',?" Mario asked.
     "I could care less about the outcome at this moment, I just want to do it. Are you sure there's no wind?"
     "Dude, there's no fucking wind or breeze, and I ain't blowing on you from where I'm sitting. You're just high as fuck cause it's your first time. Won't be the same after this."
     "You know, Summer says she eats edibles. You ever had an edible before?"
     "You mean like a magic brownie?"
     "Yes. She said something about eating brownies before cutting the turkey for Thanksgiving last week."
     "I've never had an edible before, just smoked blunts and joints."
     "Maybe I'll have her show me how to make magic brownies at her place. That'll be a good way to get closer to her. You know, emotionally."
     "Don't hit the nos too soon, Olavi. I know from experience, better to be friends before lovers. If you become lovers too soon, it won't end well."
     "How long will I be high for?" I asked.
     "I don't know, I told you I've never ate an edible before."
     "No, I mean now."
     "Oh, I don't know. How much you smoke?"
     I began thinking how many times I inhaled. After almost a minute, I said, "I don't remember."
     "You're so fucking high, man." Mario began laughing again.
     I then sat there smoking my cigarette, rubbed my face with my hand, then stood up from the chair, and surprisingly was still well balanced.
     "You think I can walk a straight line again?" I asked.
     "Try it," Mario said.
     I stood still, staring down at the lawn.
     "Well, you gonna walk the line, or not?" Mario asked.
     "I don't want to, cause I'm questioning whether I'm even here, or just in a dream," I said.
     "Come sit back down."
     "You think I'll fall down and not get up, Mario?"
     "No, just come sit, relax, and enjoy the high."
     I did as he suggested.
     "Are your parents leaving this weekend?" he asked.
     "Yes," I said.
     "Then this weekend we get crunked, and you can tell me more about Summer. Right now, love the high under the shade of the clouds."
     About an hour and a half later, when my first high was over, it felt as if a dream ended while I was still awake.
   
   
   

Am I Here?(In Love)

     I do not remember the exact date, nor the exact time on the clock, but I do remember the moment I fell in love with Summer at first sight. Never before had it happened to me up until that time, but the feeling felt so familiar it was as if breathing oxygen after almost drowning. It was about ten to twenty minutes into the workday, when I was scanning Next-day Air packages, and then tossing them into the big containers which were to be driven straight to the airport. On that particular day our team was understaffed, so management called in two people who worked in the morning shift to aid us evening shift people. I was about to scan and toss a package going to Kingsman, Arizona, when I heard a member of the management team call out to the two double-shifters.
     "Go upstairs and sign your names on the staffing sheet in our office," the manager said.
     I looked up from reading the label on the package slowly moving along the conveyer belt, and saw one of the most -- if not the most -- beautiful women I had ever laid my depressed eyes upon as she was turning to make her way to the office at the other side of the building. She wore a gray tank top, baggy blue jeans, black work boots, and a pair of work gloves, one of which she was removing from her right hand so she could use the pen to write her name on the staffing sheet as instructed. Other than her beauty, that's what impressed the most at first, her readiness for work, and fully prepared for the hot evening of hard work. Her beauty though, goddamn what a beautiful girl. Her blue eyes shined like the waters of Bora Bora, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, exposing a beautifully grand face which had not one touch of makeup, and sure as fucking Hell, didn't need any.
     If I had fallen to my knees, injuring myself, and having to take time off work, it would've been worth it.
     The coworker walking beside her I had only noticed in my peripheral. I only knew he had black hair.
     It was a moment I shall always remember. I even know the exact spot I was standing. I was twenty years old at the time, and never before that moment had I ever fallen for a girl so quickly. It was as if I had been struck by lightning, blown off my feet straight into the air, and all I could see was the rest of the world over the walls of my isolation and dark depression.
     I looked back down at the Arizona package, scanned it, picked it up from the conveyer belt, and placed it inside the airport container.
     "What are their names?" I asked my manager.
     "Her name's easy to remember," my manager said. "It's Summer. His I forgot, which is why I had them both sign in. I'm lazy that way."
     "Summer," I said. "Of course her name is Summer."
     "Hey, everyone," my manager called out to the rest of the staff, "Olavi's in love."
     "What's his name?" a coworker asked.
     "Her name's Summer," I corrected. "She's a she. And I don't -- I'm no love." I stammered, scanning a package that didn't go in the container I was loading. "I don't know what you fools are talking about. It's only been like ten seconds since the first time I've seen her."
     "Come on, Olavi," my manager said, "if Helen Keller were here right now, she'd even notice you smitten with hearts in your eyes."
     Most intellectuals in this world have the blue-collar worker all pegged wrong; though most showed up either drunk or high -- management included (as well as I) -- they saw right through me as if they could read my mind.
     Later that evening, as I was loading packages into a trailer, I took any free moment available to look out at the unload area so I could catch a glimpse of her putting a package on the moving conveyer belt -- not that I wanted to see her bend over, I just wanted to see her in all her glory of, you know, existing. The few times I did observe her, she was working close with the other dude from the morning shift, and all I hoped for was that he wasn't her boyfriend. Unloaders usually worked separately along the conveyer belts where the delivery trucks were parked, but these two were basically connected at the hip, unloading the same package cars or ones parked right next to each other. They were both good workers, but I found the sight of them working so close together so disheartening, and I hoped they weren't as close outside work.
     I'm going to fast-forward a bit, because I don't want to bore you with the day-to-day of my work experience at that particular company -- which I shall not name -- nor the consistent routine of unloading, sorting, and then loading customer packages inside a forty-foot trailer. It was probably the best job I've ever had: four to five hour shifts with good pay, and excellent benefits. The perfect part-time job for a college student or a struggling artist, allowing plenty of free time during the day to focus on their passion -- if there was any, that is. I'll admit, I was a twenty year old college dropout, hopelessly finding my voice and craft in my writing of fiction, finding myself in a pool of self-doubt, becoming lazy. I had this cool, original idea for a novel, but I simply was having a difficult time starting it -- debating with myself whether it should be in third-person, or first-person narrative. So I spent a lot of my free time going to the library and reading critically acclaimed novels for inspiration and some semblance of motivation.
     After a while I realized I was not really progressing, but stagnant, stuck in a routine which I had never really left. I quit college because I felt no passion in going to classes, listening to lectures, writing essays, taking exams, study and research for a thesis I literally didn't give a shit about even though I came up with the subject matter, and giving some speech in an attempt to get people to like something which was assigned to me, but I wouldn't give a fuck about it even if I were paid. And those fucking godawful college debates where everyone's mind is already made up before they even start fucking talking. I don't mean to bash those who desire for careers in the medical field, Law, Education, Politics, or Engineering, but those with a passion for the Arts attending college, not only are wasting their money, they're wasting valuable time. You can't find yourself by doing work for others. But I'll tell you this: as you hear my story you will consider me a Dumbass hypocrite, and I'll concur with such criticism because I wasted so much time -- at one point finding myself in debt with no job. We can either learn from other people's mistakes, or learn from our own. Either way, we fucking learn.
     In the routine I found myself in, where I simply was a recluse who woke up, read, watched movies, saved money, and occasionally tried to write a novel, it finally dawned on me I wasn't living a life. Up until I first laid eyes upon Summer I had never had a girlfriend, never had sex, nor kissed a girl. It wasn't that I was a religious person holding onto my virginity until marriage. Hell no. It was just I never made any moves on girls I had crushes on in high school. Back in those days I was mostly depressed, and if I wasn't, I'd just be too chickenshit to ask a girl out on a date.
     In my teenage years I didn't like those popular skanks who everyone knew was bound to get knocked up by the bad-boy-jock-guyhoes by the end of senior year, or at the least, the summer immediately after. The girls I liked -- or I should refer to as ladies -- were the ones more focused on their education, especially ones involved in sports.
     No. I never attended a girl's sports event to gawk at their perfect form... performance. Now that I think about it, maybe I should've sat in the bleachers, shown my support and expressed Minuteman (actual high school mascot, weird) PRIDE! But the ladies probably would have said to each other: Did you notice that guy Olavi always comes to our games, sitting all by himself? I heard he only shows up at the girl's events and never the dude's. Who's he dating? WHAT?! He's single. OH...MY GOD! What a CREEPER!
     The ladies I had a crush on are now either married with children, or have awesome careers and live far away.
     Anyways, back to Summer.
     I never expected to see her again after she first double-shifted, but every once in a while she'd be there, and every time I saw her at work, it was as if seeing her for the very first time all over again. There was this feeling of refreshing excitement, as if my depressed soul were soothed by an ancient tonic long forgotten. For months I didn't get the opportunity to talk to her; by the end of every shift she was there for, she'd be gone by the time I'd clock-out.
     Then a miracle occurred -- a miracle to me anyway. She transferred from the morning shift to the evening, and there she was, my coworker everyday. Everyone else knew I was in love, everyone but her of course. She seemed too focused on her job to notice some dude gawking at her. The fact she'd be naive of my crush on her made me love her even more, because as I mentioned earlier, I don't like attention-seeking skanks.
     For about a month we didn't have a conversation. When we finally did we were alone in a trailer she was loading. I don't remember what I said word for word, but it was about loading boxes in that particular trailer and other bullshit regarding work. I basically said the first things which were coming to mind: These packages are the ones the customers bitch about most cause they're not home to sign for them. When they finally get them, the boxes are half-crushed. Whatever, they're idiots. You don't even have to build walls with the boxes, just put them to the side, or toss 'em. You don't have to feel guilt about it. I never am.
     I don't think Summer said much in reply to what I was saying; probably saying things like, "Wow," "Interesting." Then turning around and going back to work. I probably sounded like a bumbling idiot, but her looking right at me with those beautiful blue eyes when I was speaking made my appearance of idiocy worth it.
     As time passed I would notice more and more Summer appeared sad, like her heart had been broken, or some bad memory left a scar in her mind, and all I wanted to do was make her happy. Hug her, kiss her forehead, telling her there was nothing to be sad about, because no matter what, I'd make my soul purpose in life to make her happy.
     A day before Thanksgiving, during a short break at work, I asked her where in the Bay Area she was going to celebrate the holiday with her family. She informed me her family was the type where everyone simply avoided each other.
     "Sorry to hear about that, Summer," I said.
     "People in my family are selfish trash," she said. "I don't mind anyway. Are you having dinner with your family?"
     "Yes. Family on my father's side. They're religious, but it'll be nice to see them. I hardly see any of my cousins on my dad's side of the family."
     "That's nice," Summer said, placing both her hands under her chin, looking bored.
     "So what're doing tomorrow if you're not eating Thanksgiving food?" I asked. I was working my way to inviting her to my family's dinner.
     She replied, "Oh, I'm still eating Thanksgiving food. With friends. And we're gonna eat edibles an hour before we cut the turkey. We did it last year. It's really fun to be high at Thanksgiving."
     "What's an edible?" I asked, unfamiliar with the context of what she was saying.
     Summer cupped her hand on the side of her mouth, moved closer to my ear, close enough to where I could smell the scent of her hair, and whispered, "Weed." She then backed away, looking around to see if anyone else was listening. "Last year we made cookies. This year I'm baking brownies."
     That evening I laid in bed having a hard time falling asleep because I couldn't get Summer out of my mind. I so desperately wanted to talk to her more, learn everything about her: where she was born, how old she was, her favorite color, her interests, her favorite book, when she first kissed a boy, her first crush, and so on and so on. I thought of her so much that night, I believe I only had an hour of sleep.
     I thought about what she had said in regards to eating weed brownies with her friends on Thanksgiving day. The thing was, up until that time I had never tried marijuana. Most of my coworkers smoked weed. Seemed like everyone smoked something illegal at that company. A lot of meth heads. My friend Mario smoked weed, and had tried for the past year to convince me to at least try it. He told me if I didn't enjoy it, then I obviously wouldn't have to do it again. And coincidentally, as I lay in the dark, imagining hanging out with Summer and all her friends at a party at one of their apartments, Mario called me on my cellphone.
     "Hey, man," he said, obviously stoned. "Olavi."
     "Yeah, Mario, what do you want?" I asked.
     "You don't have to be rude, man."
     "What time is it?" I asked.
     "Like, almost three," he said. "Why?"
     "And you expect me not to be rude, Mario? It's three in the morning."
     He sighed heavily into the phone. "Well, are you tired?"
     "No, I'm still awake. I'm just saying, man, it's the principal."
     "Olavi, we're not in school anymore. We don't have a principal."
     Jesus Christ, I thought, is it cause he's high, or simply naive.
     "I was calling you to ask you a question," Mario said. I could hear him blowing out smoke.
     "And that is?"
     There was a pause. I could hear the sounds of him toking hard, then blowing out smoke.
     He finally said, "Will you ever, at least once, smoke weed with me, your bestest of all bestests friends in the wholed wide earth?"
     I was silent for nearly a minute, thinking about the moment Summer moved close to my ear, her hand covering her mouth, and the scent of her hair. How much I wanted that hand to touch my face, how I desired more than anything to put my arms around her and touch her hair with my nose so I could get a close and clearer whiff of her blond, naturally scented hair.
     "Did this mothafucka' just hang up on me, man?" Mario said to someone with him.
     "Yes," I said into the phone. "The next time we hangout I'll do it. I hope it's as good as cigarettes."
     "Man, the shit's so good, you may quit tobacco for good," Mario said, nearly cheering.
     "Unlikely," I said. "Have you ever had an edible?"

SOC #42: Sheltered Riot

Olavi: "Let me tell you a story about the time my cousin Antonio and I went to the Coachella Music Festival in the summer of 2007. We took a train, then a bus down to Southern California. On the train we met two Canadian dudes from British Colombia or wherever the fuck, and had a long conversation about the differences between our two great nations. By the end of the train ride, I realized there honestly was no difference. Well, they learn French and English in grade school. Anyways, we then had to take a 3 hour bus ride to where the Festival was located. Antonio planned our ride to the place, I bought the tickets for the three days of the festival, and provided the tent for the campgrounds where we'd be sleeping at. This was the first time either of us had been to a big multi-staged music festival. The only reason I wanted to go was because Rage Against The Machine were reuniting for a show since disbanding seven years before. We made it through security with no fuss. I snuck in a flask of vodka, and some cigarettes with tobacco and weed packed in together. After being assigned our camping spot, we started to put up my tent. Antonio ended up doing most of the work, because I started drinking vodka from the flask and became useless. He didn't drink, nor did he smoke anything. A clean cut, smooth sailing guy, my cousin. I thought he'd live it up and imbibe some booze on this trip, but no. He'd say, 'I'm just not into it, Olavi.' I'd say, 'Fine, more for me. You might have to carry me here to the tent tomorrow if I go overboard.' He said, 'Look, you're family, and I love you, but I ain't carrying your fat-ass all the way here. There's security for that.' The tent was up, our things inside the tent. It was night time, so we went to the venders and bought ourselves pizza. He drank pepsi. I drank a Miller. We then went back to our tent and met one of our fellow campers. They said they drove all the way from Oregon. I forgot everything else they said. All I remember was it was two dudes and a chick in a menage a trois relationship, and all I was interested in was the fact they were passing around a weed pipe and they were nice enough to let me smoke some. The next three days were awesome. Saw a lot of great bands, but mostly ones I'd never find myself listening to on a regular basis. There were displays of Art all over the place, structures made by passionate individuals. One was a big locomotive which would annoyingly blast it's horn every ten minutes. I hated that fucking thing. Guess it was suppose to represent humanities horrifying treatment of planet Earth, blah blah blah. Anyways, at the end of the first day, my cousin and I were sleeping in our tent. I was so drunk I slept in an awkward angle where my foot was sticking out the front of the tent. And obviously a damn hippie hoodlum came up and tickled my foot. I jolted awake, saying, 'Fucking shit! Bastards!' The culprit was gone. Antonio said, 'The fuck you bitching about, drunk.' I said, 'A clown tickled me, man.' He asked, 'How?' I answered, 'My foot was sticking out the door.' He suggested, 'How about you bring your foot inside.' I said, 'I got a nice cigar. You wanna have some of it with me?' He said, 'No, you idiot. I've told you, I don't want to smoke anything, I don't want to drink any booze, I just want to enjoy the music. And in order to do that I need fucking sleep, not stay up late smoking a fucking cigar.' I looked at my watch, and informed, 'But it's like, eleven-thirty, man. It's like early, man. Do you hear that outside?' He said, 'Yeah.' I said, 'The people cackling laughter, people singing, guitars playing, and the drums pounding. Those, my dear cousin, are the sounds of life - not simply life - the love of life. They're all making love to life out there, Antonio, and all you want to do is sleep.' He said, 'You're drunk babbling, and everyone out there is on drugs. The drums don't even have any fucking rhythm. My mother would be disgusted by those fools.' I said, 'You know, your sister would be proud you came to Coachella with me. The last thing she told me was to get out of the house and do things. I'm sure she said the same thing to you.' He said, 'I know. I just don't want to get drunk or high.' I said, 'You don't have to get drunk or high. Look, man, lets share the cigar I brought, and walk around the campground for an hour, until the cigar goes out, then we can go to sleep.' He said, 'I don't want to inhale that shit.' I informed, 'Cigars are for the taste, you don't inhale the smoke.' He finally sat up in the tent. I sat up as well, reaching in my backpack for the cigar and my lighter. I said, 'This could be the only one you'll ever smoke in your entire life.' We spent the rest of that first night wandering around the tents, puff and passing the cigar back and forth. I smoked it more than he did. When we stopped to watch a bunch of morons on shrooms try to play their instruments, I asked him, 'How you like the cigar?' He said, 'It's okay, but I don't find it appealing.' He then gave out a small, genuine cough. I said, 'Even tomatoes aren't for everybody.' The next morning, before they let people back into the festival, a girl came up to me and asked if I had shrooms. I said, 'I don't do shrooms.' She then said, 'Why?' Then continued to walk around, inquiring if anyone had shrooms to spare. A year later I would find out why shrooms were loved by millions of drug abusers. Later that day, at the Stephen Marley concert, a man was walking around the crowd, holding up a sign that said: I need LSD. And, yes, a year later I'd find out why people enjoyed that shit. That night I drank a few beers, a strong Bloody Mary, and passed out, sleeping like a dead man, dreaming about a field of daisies being crushed by an armored tank. I woke up the next morning truly rejuvenated. Antonio told there had been a near riot at 3am. Riot police showed up. The campers, those stoned idiots wouldn't stop with the drums, so people who lived in homes near the festival called the cops. The stoned idiots threw bottles at the police, calling them Nazi's and yelling obscenities about their mothers. A helicopter flew overhead with the guy who ran the Coachella Festival yelling into a bullhorn, calming down the crowd of idiots, telling them to go back to their tents and to please be quiet. 'Peace and Love is what we should be about,' he had said. Antonio said, 'I can't believe that shit didn't wake you up.' A year later I had forgotten about youth's desire to treat stupidity like it were just another night club to do ecstasy in. My cousin had not followed me down such a path. His sister would have been proud."

SOC #41: New Year Cooky

Olavi: "There was once a time when I was young, fresh out of high school, and had a mature sense of rationality where, if I had made more formulaic decisions, I wouldn't have the time to actually tell you this story of New Years Eve 2004. My friend Mario and his two friends, Salvio, and Chris took a flight from San Fransisco Airport at around 6pm to Las Vegas for the New Years celebration. It was a spur of the moment invitation by Mario only days before. He called me up and asked, "Hey, Olavi, wanna go to Vegas for New Years?" At first, the words I really wanted to say were, "No. Not last minute like this. I don't feel like it. Not my thing." But I must've been actually silent for nearly half a minute, because Mario said into my ear, "Did Olavi hang up on me?" I said, "No, I'm still here, man." Mario then said, "Well, you wanna go or not?" In the split second before I answered, I thought about the last moment I saw my cousin two weeks before she died. Olavi, she had said, you got to get out of the house more. Go do stuff. Go party, kid. Do it when you're young, because believe me, the older you get the less fun you'll be able to have. Where's your mom's cookies? As I remembered, I said, "Cookies." Mario asked, "What's that you say?" I said, "Okay, I'll go. Is it just you and me?" Mario wooed with excitement in my ear. I said, "Damn, man. I don't want to watch fireworks def." Mario then said, "About fucking time you do something fun for yourself. It just won't be you and I. Chris and Salvio are coming as well. Chris booked everything. The flight, the room, everything, man." So a few days later, on New Years Eve, our flight landed in Vegas just before 8pm. After picking up our luggage I followed Chris and the rest as we wandered around the Vegas airport. I had no clue what we were looking for; we weren't headed outside where all the taxi's were but inside where people seemed to be standing around, waiting for whoever and whatever. Chris then appeared from the crowd of people with a man wearing a suit, and holding a sign with Chris' full named written on it. It was a fucking limo driver. I couldn't believe it. We were headed to the fucking hotel on the Las Vegas strip inside a fucking limo on New Years Eve with the celebration just around the corner. I felt good, great, excellent, and elated with the decision I had made. Sometimes it's okay to spoil yourself and just eat the damn cooky. We sat inside the stretch limo as the driver drove us through the city, the strobe and neon lights passing by. Salvio noticed there was a CD player in the roof over the back seat. He put in some rap music. The speakers blasted with true gangsta lyrics. I wish he had let me play some of my Danzig music, then I would've truly enjoyed the short trip to the hotel. I looked out the window as the limo was nearing its destination. The Luxor. That black pyramid with the white light of a tip, stretching its beam up into the dark, starless sky. Cooky, I thought to myself. Mario and I stood far from the front desk as Chris was checking himself and Salvio into the room. The thing was Chris only booked two people into the room, not all four of us. So Mario and I just stood at the border of where the lobby ended and the Casino began. I was admiring the decor of the Luxor when Mario said, "Doesn't look good." I asked, "What do you mean?" He said, pointing, "Look." I looked over and saw Chris arguing with the clerk, but it wasn't the clerk, it was the fucking manager. I asked, "You think they saw us, saw we were Mexican, put two and two together? Figured things out? Fucking bastards." Mario looked over at me, "You don't even look Mexican, you half-gringo." I said, "Hey, that kind of hurts my feelings. Sometimes I do wish I was born a little darker." Mario said jokingly, "Bullshit." I emphasized, "Key word, Mario, 'Sometimes.'" Chris and Salvio appeared. Chris said, "They won't give us the fucking room." Mario asked, "Why the fuck not? You made the reservation weeks ago." Salvio informed, "They said it was because we weren't twenty-fucking-one." I said, "What's us not being twenty-one have to do with sleeping in the Luxor?" Chris said, "Cause the fucking mini-bar in the room. If all of us are under twenty-one it's a fucking liability. Fucking morons didn't tell me when I booked it. But the manager said this kind of shit happens all the time, so they booked us a room at a cheaper hotel." Mario inquired, "Is it on the strip?" Salvio said, "He said it was." I said, "I bet he's fucking full of shit." We went back outside and got into the cab. The cab driver told us the hotel we were headed to was a mile off the strip. Chris said, "That lying cocksucker. Olavi, you were right. Fuckers don't care about us underage people. They just want all the money they can SUCK OUT OF YOU!" Salvio said, "Hey, it ain't all bad. It's like just after ten-thirty, we can make in time for the fireworks." The cab driver said, with a heavy Russian accent, "Good luck with that." Then he chuckled. I said, "Still a good cooky." Mario asked, "What?" I said, "Nothing." We made it to the cheap-ass hotel, checked in as fast as we could, dropped off our luggage inside the room, and then waited ten minutes outside for another cab. The cab couldn't make it all the way to the strip due to heavy traffic and the fact some roads were blocked off for the nights celebration. Mario paid the cab driver, we got out, then ran on foot to the strip. Yes, we made it to the crowd of drunk people waiting for the clock to strike midnight. During this time of my life I had never been drunk, and I simply stared at all the people around me, all the tourists, from all around the country and all around the world, and thought in my sober mind how much I didn't want to be like them. I saw all these smiles, heard all the laughter, saw bravery in men walking up to beautiful women and begging for their love. What I truly saw, as my friends and I waited for the year 2005 to arrive, were unhappy people numbing themselves into a fantasy which would never come. I saw the biggest wish for an eternal utopia in those faces and eyes, and the minds behind them were full of dreams never coming true. At this time in my life I was in between joy and depression, and when the big sign said Happy New Year 2005. I could only hear annoying bangs of colorful lights in the sky, and annoying shouts from drugged up, drunken fools. We continued to walk through the strip as the new year began to go and go as it always did. Mario turned to me and said, "Dude, look." I inquired, "Where?" He said, pointing, "Up there. The dude is climbing that big neon sign. Fucking awesome." People began to cheer and woo, clap and whistle. Then a big flash of sparks burst from the sign. A light brighter than any of the fire works. I covered my eyes for a second. I uncovered them a moment later as the cheers changed to screaming. The neon sign was out of power. The man was gone. Salvio yelled, "The fucking guy just fried." Everyone ran. Later, we would find out the man was from the Bay Area in California. Not only that, he was from where Mario and I lived. We later found ourselves inside a new cab headed for the hotel. Chris asked the driver, "Is there an eighteen-and-up strip club in Las Vegas?" Fifteen minutes later we were sitting inside a dirty fucking strip club in the front row. It was nearly empty. I wasn't enjoying myself like the others were who looked on the stage like drooling dogs, so hypnotized by the naked lady onstage, going up and down on the damn pole, crawling pathetically on the ground right in front of us. She beckoned for Mario who, like a Zombie in a horror film, went up to her obediently at the edge of the stage. She touched him all over. He got carried away and rubbed both her inner thighs with his hands. She pushed them away immediately, waving her finger before his eyes, saying, "No, no, bad boy." I simply sat there uninterested, smoking a cigarette. I'm not saying strip clubs shouldn't exist, but goddamn, they're fucking boring. I'll admit, I was a virgin at that time, and I love pussy, but I certainly was not a dog with his pink lipstick dick poking out. The found the faces of the men more interesting - and honestly more fucking hilarious - as they stared at the strippers onstage. Seriously, why pay to see a comedian when you can look at a man mesmerized by a naked woman. When the place closed, we were outside getting a cab, but the fucking greedy cabdrivers wanted to charge us fifty bucks for a most likely fifteen dollar drive to the hotel cause of the traffic from the New Years Celebration. We ended up paying one of the drivers, but guess what, NO TRAFFIC; city workers had already cleared the strip for civilian traffic, so the roads flowed smoothly. Chris was fucking pissed, so he got the cab driver to stop at a gas station and buy us underage kids a case of Corona. The driver said, "I could lose my job." Chris said, "No, you won't." We got back to the hotel with the twelve Coronas. I didn't drink any. I just didn't feel like it. I thought about that idiot who electrocuted himself to death on that night. It wasn't because he wanted to die, it was because he was a drunken moron trying to impress a girl who was probably actually a hooker he couldn't afford. Such a thought made me sleep well. I didn't want to spoil myself by eating too many cookies. Three years later I'd find myself back in Vegas with magic cookies, and numbing myself from the fire, because, with the right drugs, one can have a wonderful time in Hell."

SOC #40: Olavi's paper scars

Olavi: "I don't have any visible scars on my skin. I've never been stabbed, but I've had a knife pulled on me. I've never been shot, but I've had a gun drawn on me. I've done plenty of drugs, but never got to a point where I fell down stairs, crashed my car, ran into a glass wall, jumped off a building with the thought I could fly, or have been beaten to a bloody pulp by a fool. My hearts been broken, shattered to pieces, but there's never a scar for any us who have suffered such travesty. My scars are within my own mind, memories which triggered my last great horror, faded by the passing of time - many years, in fact - for me to regurgitate into words a prolonged experience I hopefully will never live again. I say 'regurgitate' for I feel it's the healthiest way to relieve what I consider an aggravation of silence. Of course I could tell a completely fictional tale that has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell, but lets face it, every fiction was inspired by truth in some for or another. I looked at the stories I had written and saw myself in them, like pieces of a puzzle I stole from a box and reshaped for selfish reasons. When I finally had come to this realization, I said, 'What the Hell. I'll simply write about myself, get it all off my chest. All those times on drugs. The sex, the booze, the parties, the field of weed, the house of weed, the trip to Vegas and Comic-con, the two psychosis', and the suicide attempt in one epic of an autobiography.' What it really took was a painting I had someone make of myself with my shirt off, my devilock down over my face, and a cigarette hanging from my lips - also my beer gut sticking out in front of me. I looked upon this image, and asked aloud to myself, 'Am I Here?' And like that one chef use to say, BAM! I had another novel in mind with all my good and bad memories inside it. It would be like James Frey's Million Little Pieces, but without all the heroin use, and the fact he called it a memoir when it really was semi-autobiographical fiction. 'Fuck it,' I said to myself, still looking down at the painted image of my fat-ass, 'It will be fictional, because I want the story to be more entertaining than what happened in reality, more intense, more drugs, more sexual content, and... a lot more drugs, like shrooms laced with acid, and.... more cocaine. I mean, there's no other drug that makes a story about drug abuse better than cocaine. And the psychosis parts will be each FIFTY PAGES LONG! No paragraph breaks.' Okay, it's not Olavi talking right now, it's actually the writer of these words. Don't worry, the author is not suffering a mental breakdown, or some kind of split personality kind of thing. But you'd find that more interesting if that were really happening, wouldn't you, you reader? For you love the dramatic over the mundane sanity. Moving on. I want to show off my scars in the form of words to whoever will read them. Will the story be entertaining? Yes, I think so. Will it be any good? How the Hell should I know? Honestly, I don't even care. I don't even care how this blog post will be perceived by others. I think it's gone too far out to sea, pulled by the tide to be honest, because I had some idea on how this would go, like I'd get into something about how the consequence of losing ones own mind - no matter how innocent the circumstances - will be the fact that some of the people you care about will avoid you at all costs, never saying a word to you for years. Or if you don't cry when your heart is broken by a woman you'd thought would be in your life until death, the bitch wasn't worth it, and you tell everyone if she ever called you back, you'd tell her, 'FUCK OFF! YOU CUNT!' Then after two years, she sends you an e-mail telling you how much she missed you and regrets not calling you, she feels bad about it and all that shit, then inside you cry with joy like a Star Wars fanboy meeting Mark Hamill for the first time at the airport. Or the fact I didn't end up in jail a few times doesn't mean it was worth it. Anyways, where was I? Fuck. I always get lost in these little insignificant tirades I find myself doing. Kind of like the times I'd smoke weed and talk philosophically for hours. I'm done doing that mundane horse-shit anymore. I don't even care if weed's legalized. I ain't touching it. By the way, none of this is ending up in Am I Here? So don't think this is some special sample. Damn, this post has really gone off the deep end, hasn't it? Okay then, I'll give you a sample: 'In Vegas, my friend Mario and I were invited to a penthouse suite at the MGM Grand by this rich guy (I forgot his name, so don't ask) where we witnessed his wife and four hookers stand in a circle, taking turns (Warning: adult content)... peeing inside an empty pitcher. When they were done, the rich man picked it up and began drinking the piss in large, unwavering gulps. We screamed in disgust, horror, and genuine shock, then ran the fuck out of there.' Did you like that? If you didn't, go read squeaky clean fucking Twilight, or some other escapist bullshit. There be only truth and honesty in the stories I tell, whether fictional, or inspired by fact. The next chapter of Am I Here? coming soon. It's the best part, where I fell in love with Summer. No, not the season, the person, a real kind and beautiful woman. She took my virginity, you know. Olavi OUT!" \m/

Am I Here?(Oh, Really)

"Why the Hell would that be the first thing you'd tell me about?" she asked. "Your suicide attempt. Really? Why would you open up with something so dark?"
     I finished my glass of beer with a sigh of total satisfaction.
     "I swear, this has got to be the greatest beer on the planet," I said, refilling my glass from the pitcher. "If not, at least the country."
     "Hey, you gonna answer my question?" Her brow raised, irritated.
     "Oh, yes, of course," I said. "Sorry about that. Um, that's just my style. When I tell a long story, I like to start with the beginning-of-the-end, then rewind to the beginning where I choose to begin telling the story leading up to where I truly began telling the story to begin with."
     There was a long moment of silence. I sipped some of my beer, about ready to continue telling her my story. Instead, she broke the silence.
     "What the fuck did you just say?" she asked, bemused. "I can't figure -- what the -- are you too drunk, or something?"
     "Well, yeah," I replied. "Anyways -- look, I understand you lack of understanding. You expected something you didn't get, because I'm not the type to give those like you what they expect."
     Her hands covered her eyes as she grimaced in frustration, baring her pearly white teeth.
     "You're talking to me in circles," she said, hands still over her eyes. "I get your type of character."
     "What type would that be?" I inquired.
     "The poetic type, always speaking as if everything at all times is the most beautiful it can be, and every word coming out of your mouth makes perfect sense, but only to you."
     "What?" I said. "I don't get what you mean. I'm not a poet."
     Her hands dropped from over her eyes. She said, "All I'm trying to say is that the impact of what you just told me was rather uneventful to me as a listener. You treated the worst moment of your life as if it were equivalent to locking your keys in the car right in front of your locked house."
     I burst out laughing a little too loud, startling the bartender bringing us our burgers and fries. When I noticed he almost dropped the plates of food, I covered my mouth.
     "Sorry about that, man," I struggled to say. "It's just what she said was the best simile I've ever heard in my life."
     "Whatever, dude," the bartender said. "Do you need anything else?"
     "No. I'm good, man. Thank you."
     Eyeing me for a second, he turned, and walked back inside the bar.
     "Your criticism is illegibly noted in my brain," I said to her, "because I'm now too drunk to care about what you think of me. Why are you even complaining? You bought the damn beer. Remember, you said that thing about 'liquid courage.'"
     "I know, I know," she said, "but it's just nice to start from the beginning. It's better to be linear when it comes to telling the story of your life, Olavi."
     "Like the day I was born? Don't you think that's a bit of a cliche, as if I'm dictating some kind of manifesto. I hate manifestos."
     "No," she said, a little frustrated again. "I just want to hear where you choose to begin telling your life story. It could be when you were a teenager, or when you were in college."
     "I never went to college," I informed.
     "Really?" she asked, surprised. "Then what was with that C.S. Lewis quote?"
     "I, uh, read a lot, do some internet research on occasion, and -- not that I'm boasting to impress you -- I have a pretty good memory."
     "All I'm trying to say, Olavi, is that I want to hear your words straight from your heart and soul. And since you do as you please: no inhibition, and no restraint."
     I sat back in my chair, rubbed my chin, and considered what she had just said. It was the first time in my life I decided to heed someone's advice.
     But first I said: "Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way."
     "I thought you weren't a poet," she said.
     "It's from Bret Easton Ellis' novel Lunar Park," I told her.
     She sighed.
     "Look, my suicide attempt was not the darkest moment in my life. What happened two years later was truly dark, where I couldn't see the world around me."
     "What possibly could be worse than an attempted suicide?" she asked. "Did you... lose someone close to you?"
     I lit myself another cigarette. For a moment I averted her eyes, looking at the ashtray on the table.
     "Well, you'll just have to be patient, being that you want me to work my way to that point in my story."
     I looked back up at her.
     "Good," she said, visibly pleased, grinning and nodding her head in approval. "I can't wait."
     "Give the people what they want, as the saying goes. I won't begin when I was in high school. Nothing much happened to me there of any significance anyway. Just went to school, then back home to do homework, and then play video games. And after I graduated, spent a semester at a city college, dropped out, then got a job with a shipping company where I threw -- I mean, handled customer's packages inside a warehouse."
     I stopped talking for a moment to give her a smile and wink.
     Then I said, "I know what a girl like you wants."
     "And what's that, boy?" she asked.
     I leaned forward in my chair, and said, "The day I fell in love with Summer."
     "Doesn't everyone love Summer?" she said.
     "No, not the season," I said. "Her name was Summer."

Am I Here?(In This Room)

                                                              Devilock 1

 
                    "Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is
                      more common and also more hard to bear."
                                                             - C. S. Lewis


Everything about the room was basically the same compared to my two previous 51/50's: two beds for two patients, two beside tables with two drawers for cloths, and a window. The only difference this time was my roommate and I had our own bathroom with a shower. The one thing I hated most about the mental hospital was there were no locks on the bathroom doors, because I later walked in on my roommate right after he had gotten out of the shower, and I got myself a perfect view of his hairy fat ass. I mean, I understand that there can't be locked doors for us mental patients to be behind, other than the doors which keep us from leaving the building, but, shit, I saw the man's ass. It ain't that hard for the orderlies to carry keys for the bathroom door. The only way a suicide-case could kill themselves in those particular bathrooms was to drown themselves in the toilet. And I've never heard of anyone committing suicide by shoving their head in a toilet bowl.
     There was also something else different about the room. Not what was inside, but the fact that on this third 51/50 I was on the third floor, and the view outside was actually decent. The first two times in the hospital my room was in a one-story building with view outside the window being nothing more than green leaves from a large bush behind a chainlink fence. This time I could see blue sky with meek looking clouds sprawled all around on a sunny day. But that was only half of it, literally. The lower half was the top of the building next door made of brown brick.
     The first morning of my third 51/50 I sat on my bed staring at this view thinking how comparable, yet opposite, the image before me was to the infamous phrase: Glass half full, half empty.
     I remember thinking, Half blue sky, half brick wall. What's good is on top. What's bad is on bottom.
     My roommate was behind me in his half of the room, pacing back and forth around his bed, stomping his feet on the hardwood floor with each step. Every once in a while he'd raise his forearms in front of his face in a kind of defensive manner. He mumbled things, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I felt bad for him, and I also felt bad for those who would never try to empathize with him -- if they ever could, that is. I definitely could, because I was as bad as him the two previous times, but at least, other people could understand the words I was saying.
     I stared at the decent view outside, remembering everything which led me to that room -- every detail of each day, every second of each hour -- but I forgot the most important thing of all: how great it felt to be alive.
     What got me in that room on that particular occasion was simple: I attempted suicide and failed. The person who saved me simply wanted a residence to smoke weed at instead of in a public place. My best friend, Mario, called me to make sure I was home alone because he wanted to get high and watch a movie with me.
     "Yeah, okay," I said, "but I don't think I'll be conscious to answer the door when you knock on it. If I no longer can walk by the time you arrive I want to apologize to you now. You'll have to find a good hidden spot to park your car and smoke a blunt in the hope no Pig will smell you."
     There was a long pause that must've lasted almost two minutes. I could tell he was high already.
     "What?" he uttered finally in the receiver.
     "Look, man," I began to explain, "I swallowed a bunch of pills with the intent to overdose and die. So if I can't answer the fucking door by the time you get here, you'll have to find somewhere else to get high. Is that registering in your brain, Mario?"
     "Olavi, you did what?!" he yelled into his cell phone, causing static on my end.
     For a second I thought my hearing was going bad, and wondered if that was the first to go before the body began shutting down.
     "I'm already on my way," Mario said, breathing heavily. "Stop swallowing pills. Unlock your front door. We're going to the hospital soon as I get there."
     "Okay," I said, then hung up.
     I walked to the front door, unlocked it as my friend commanded. I then stood still, looking out the living room window, waiting for Mario's arrival like an obedient dog waits for the master of the house.
     I don't really remember the moment I decided I was going to kill myself. People would say I decided when I began swallowing a pill one at a time that very morning, not stopping until pill number twenty-five, because the bottle was empty, but that would not be the actual truth. I believe I made the decision way before I was truly happy, back when I was a teenager, way before I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
     In my younger years I always seemed unhappy, always would stress and worry about things with no reasonable justification in doing so. What brought joy to others seemed to be a weight on my shoulders, holding me down emotionally, and spiritually. Sometimes I'd be alone in my bedroom crying, hoping I wouldn't wake up the next morning. Dreams were my safe-space -- mental disorder seemed not to effect me in dreams, even if it were a nightmare.
     Even after recovering from my suicide attempt, it took me years to realize, and accept, I didn't have to live behind bars to be in a prison. This is what most people don't understand about manic depression: on a beautiful spring day the sun burned, the wind stabbed, and when I looked down, all I could see was dirt.
     To be honest, in my experience with being Bipolar, being depressed wasn't the worst part of it. Yeah, I eventually tried to kill myself when I was at the lowest in the spectrum of Bipolar emotions, but it was when I was on the highest end, the manic experiences which had me at my most self-destructive. When a cokehead aims a loaded gun right at you, and you laugh at the idiot, you got problems you definitely need to rectify.
     Anyways. Mario's car pulled up on the curb in front of my house. Before he could make his way to the door I was already outside, locking the front door.
     "What are you doing, man?" he said, raising his hands over his head. "You fuckin' with me, or what?"
     "No," I replied, turning away from the door, put my keys inside my pocket, and started walking to the car. "I'm starting to feel like my head got an elephant sitting on it."
     "How many pills you fucking take, Olavi?"
     "Twenty-five." I went to open the door, but it was locked. "I ran out." I pulled the car door's lever again to no avail. "You gonna unlock the fucking door, man. If I pass out, you're gonna have to carry my fat ass."
     Mario sat back in his car and unlocked the passenger door for me. I sat in the carseat, noticing my butt seemed heavier. I pondered if slow death felt like being pulled into the ground, maybe into Hell, even though there wasn't such a place.
     "Why is your engine off?" I asked.
     "Cause I thought you were fucking making a cruel joke," Mario said. "I mean, you of all people killing yourself. I wouldn't have ever fathomed such a thing. Why? Why the fuck you doing this?" He  was shocked, angry, and didn't seem to believe what was happening.
     "Just drive me to the emergency room. Third times a fucking charm."
     He started the car and took off, tires screeching through the streets of my neighborhood. If we weren't pulled over by the cops, it would be a miracle.
     "What happened to your hair?" He asked. He must have wanted to keep me awake and talking.
     "I cut off my devilock so my parents would maybe put it in a picture frame, cause I want to be cremated."
     "What's wrong with you, man?" he asked, shaking his head and staring down the road.
     I began crying, and said, "I just felt ashamed."
     "Ashamed of what?......"