“Serial killers wet the bed, that’s all.”

“Lots of people wet the bed until they’re seven. Six and seven, that’s still a baby, I think. I’m just trying to relate our experiences.”

“Yeah, ok.”

They listened to the sound of other people’s chatter. The porch was half full with people.

“I wet the bed, too,” said Megan. “Until first grade. It’s no big deal.”

“I know it’s no big deal, that’s why I used it as an example.”

“But it’s different, because it’s not like I learned how to wet the bed and then got addicted to it even though it was starting to kill me. It’s not like bed wetting was all the rage but the pee was, like, transdermally poisoning me.”

“I guess that’s one difference. Still, you should give it a few more years before committing suicide. Things might change.”

“Yeah, I guess I was just being kind of dramatic,” said Megan.

“Oh really?” said Amanda.

Megan sighed and opened another beer.

They hung out and drank, and at some point someone started smoking weed out there on the porch. Megan was drunk enough to think she wanted some. She eyed the people who were smoking. They all looked like they were pretty close friends and like they were having a real conversation. They were laughing and saying “Nuh-uh” and stuff like that.

“I want to smoke some of that weed,” said Megan.

“Then ask for some.”

Megan winced. “You do it?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Hey,” she said to the group in general. “Can we trade you guys beer or smokes for a few hits of that?”

“Whatever, just have some,” said one of the guys.

“Cool,” said Amanda.

“Thanks,” said Megan.

The pipe had a bug-eyed glass crocodile on it. Megan drunkenly identified with it for its mute and endless proximity to all this social fun. She felt like a warty little toad or a troll or a guy who was so visibly lonely that everyone thought he might start beating off or crying just for the feeling of connection he would get from all that wild, concentrated attention. She raised the pipe, tried to look the croc in the eyes, took a massive undergrad hit, and then re-inhaled it though her nose. A “French” inhale. She raised her eyebrows in gratitude in the general direction of the pot smokers.

Amanda took a small sip off the pipe and passed it back and, in a surprisingly genuine tone, said, “Thanks.”

“I feel like a fucking freak,” said Megan.

“Well, you’re not a freak,” said Amanda.

“Oh, god, yes I am.”

“No you’re not.”

As the weed worked its way through Megan’s system, she felt herself become more and more pantheistic. She became a living symbol for her emotions and, in response to the honor, her emotions began to swell. As they swelled, she felt simultaneously less stable and more happy, but happy in an awful way, since her happiness had something vaguely to do with death and complacency. No, not complacency. Acceptance, maybe? No, complacency.