Page 58 of Intoxicated
Chapter 19
CHER
Go ahead and guess what I’m like when I’m high.
Go ahead! Guess!
If you think I’m the chillest girl in the room, biding my time until I get my next handful of tortilla chips then… ahaha, oh, my God, is thatSpongeBob on TV?
It’s a haze of smoke in Drew’s apartment. Half the windows are open, the fan is spinning, and he was probably dumb enough to turn on the AC as well, but we still exist in a foggy cloud of poisons. Drew raided his personal stash as soon as we got home. Me, with my little bag of what I prefer. Ah, yes, this is how you spend an afternoon and evening with the guy who gets paid to humiliate women to the point they drop out of school their senior year of college.
I wasn’t in the market of walking down terrible memory lanes. I came here to hang out. To chill. To get high, apparently.
No, no,no.I don’t smoke as often as you think I do. If anything, I keep my consumption of pot down to the bare minimum. It’s something I indulge when I’m overly anxious, okay? Or when I’m so bored I need a little pick me up. My boyfriends range from teetotalers who rage against any kind of fun (minus their cognac, of course) to tech bros who toke up every night. It’s easy enough for me to swing between the type of woman who never, ever indulges, and one who takes a hit of whatever my sugar daddy is offering me that day. (Trust me, tech bros have the worst taste in strains. There’s nothing worse than a bro who spends half his money on shit pot that stinks up the place and makes you more irritable than it’s ever worth.)
Drew, though… his stuff is all right. At least its scent blends well with mine.
Right. We were talking about what I’m like when I’m high? Have you guessed yet?
“Stop!” I lurch forward on the couch, my hand slapping the remote out of Drew’s hand. “SpongeBob!”
He looks between me and the TV. Nickelodeon has reruns on, and I’m not about to pass up my favorite childhood show. As soon as the jingle begins, I’m singing along.
“Man…” Drew slumps back down into his seat, fly half open and hand tenuously down his pants. “Can you imagine what it would be like to live in a pineapple? I don’t like pineapple. I’d rather live in a… hallowed out watermelon. Yeah. Fuck. I want watermelon. You think GrubHub is still going?”
I pull my feet up onto the couch and perch my elbows atop my knees. My joints are so loosey-goosey that I don’t cringe at the pressure this puts on my hips. Although now my mouth is so dry that I need more Fanta. Yes. I’m drinking Orange Fanta, because this trip to Nostalgia Valley isn’t complete without it. “Don’t you have grapes or something in your fridge?” I ask. “I saw them in there earlier.”
“Riiiight. Man, I don’t wanna get up. I wanna sit here and stare at this ugly squid.”
“Dude! Have you seen that creepy pasta about Squidward?”
Drew flinches at the volume of my voice. “No, can’t say I have.”
“His eyes fall out. Or something.”
“Of course they do. Wouldn’t be a creepy pasta without it.”
“I want pasta.”
“Me, too. Did you know Olive Garden delivers?”
I grab my bag of puffy Cheetos and wipe cheese dust on my T-shirt. “I want pasta. And breadsticks. Fuck me up with the carbs, Benton.”
He picks up the last of his blunt and exhales the sweet-smelling smoke that will make up the remainder of his high. After furiously blinking, Drew puts a hand on my leg and asks, “What time is it?”
