There’s nothing like a joint and a good walk in the fresh air to take the edge off when life feels jagged and frayed. I’ve tried most drugs, I guess. Not smack, though. If I were curious about it, I’d try it, but I know everything about it already. You know how sometimes you hear old ladies listening to new pregnancy advice, like don’t eat stinky cheese or eat prepacked spinach, and they kind of shrug it off and go, “Oh whatever, I smoked a pack a day and slugged half a bottle of sherry for my nerves when I was pregnant with Jimmy and Sally and they’re fine.” The kind of things Mrs. Tyburn would say. Once I heard my mom saying that, except about heroin. She said it to her friend, and I was right there, in the same room with them. She didn’t try to whisper or anything. “And look, she’s fine.” I guess she thought it wouldn’t matter if I heard since I was fine. I am fine. I was kind of little then. I don’t know, probably ten or eleven. So I’ve known for a long time that I didn’t need to do smack. I always knew how it would be: that I’d love it. I always knew I’d probably find it deeply comforting, like a bed you could bury me in.

I used to drop acid kind of a lot. Mostly on the weekends, but sometimes I’d skip school and drop a couple of tabs or eat some mushrooms. It’s a good thing to do when you don’t like where you are and you can’t do anything about it. And it’s good for bridging the gap. When things start getting heavy and girls you know start carrying handbags to school, and people expect you to think about a college major and a career and sex and, like, having a boyfriend you’re in love with. By the time you’re fourteen or fifteen everyone is trying to be so grown up, but tripping lets you get down on all fours if you want, or laugh at something stupid and normal like wallpaper or your reflection in the mirror. You can look at things like you’re a baby again. You can play. Maybe not everyone needs to take a break from growing up, but I did.