Melodrama Skit (A work of fiction)
You're taking these drugs to keep your mental state together, because an old man in an office with an oversized leather couch told you that if you could afford a brain scan, it would show you all of the missing bursts of light within your head.
Two days ago, you puked in your new front yard and found that the adderall pill you'd taken three days prior came out, nearly whole. You're not sure if this is because you didn't take it properly, or because your system is incapable of digesting anything - or, if it's just a damn powerful pill, and it's little blue self isn't meant to break down easily.
Either way, it kind of distresses you to know that the high you ripped off of it might have been just an illusion.
In classes lately, you've been opening your mind, as the instructors are telling you to. You're reading the texts and seeing the slides they're presenting you. You trust in your education very much. But there are some things that you discover on your own, writing, that seem to outweigh the expensive education. Often, you think of dropping out just to see what you might discover, but balk at the irreversible decision. You think of dropping everything - leaving the broken tar and the manicured lawns and the ex-girlfriend and the other ex-girlfriend and the stained sidewalks where drunks crouch in doorways over take-out chicken wings and start fires with their leftover containers-
and just going.
Somewhere. Anywhere but this place.
You're extremely conscious of the syntax you use, the words you choose to describe everything. "Use 'however' less." "Call it anything but 'incredibly.'" "'Vicious' is an over-used word in your personal dictionary."
An image of her smile emerges from beneath it all, all this theorizing; which reminds you that you want to kiss her and use the memories of her flesh to start a personal theocracy. In your head that sounds romantic, on paper it seems overly domineering. The discrepancy confuses you.
You're often worried about the way you write about women.
You remember the English teacher you had in seventh grade who first told you how to use a semicolon.
Kala glides in, preparing for rest. "Do you need me to turn off the light?"
"I thought you needed it on," she says.
"No, it's okay. I can work just fine in the dark. I should be going to bed soon anyways."
With a full schedule on your plate and a crush of professional appearances to make and maintain, you take one of your Prozacs and flop on your bed, determined to get a worthwhile night's sleep at least once this week.