I’m Going to Submit an Erowid Entry for Weed and Redbull

Note: I don’t know what kind of blogging goes on here at Medium dot com, but I’m just gonna use (read: abuse) it as a journaling platform. I’m not satisfied in keeping my thoughts private.

I pass by two bus stops and see the same old lady twice. Two thoughts strike me: do all old white ladies with grey hair and glasses look the same? am I being followed?

I entertain both thoughts.

  1. Old people of vague Western European descent often do look alike. Perhaps it’s the fact that most of them have wrinkled faces and greyed hair. Hopefully, I won’t join their ranks as I ripen. Likely I will. I resent growing old. I haven’t done anything with my life yet.
  2. When I go out, there’s always the sensation of being followed or surveyed. I don’t think myself important enough to have such actions taken against me; I view these procedures as routine. Of course, I know it’s irrational to think that the officers in the parked police car are listening to my thoughts on their monitor, but I still have to process these thoughts and deal with them by convincing myself it’s something the government has to do. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

I arrive at the coffee shop. Order tea (not iced, as they didn’t have any) and a ginger cookie. I want to ask if the cookie is vegan, but I hate asking questions that could set the barista’s gears in motion to forming an image of the kind of person I am. He asks what I am up to, and I lie saying that I was looking to do something that doesn’t involve work as though I have a job that requires me to do finish tasks outside of the workplace. I didn’t mean to lie, but I wasn’t there for any interesting reason.

Really, I have come here to follow my boyfriend’s advice to visit a coffee shop and pretend that I have my shit together so I could get some work done. To my surprise, the place is full for a Wednesday mid-afternoon. Maybe it’s normal for these kind of places to be full at this time of day. I sit down with the tea and cookie, wondering if it’s rude to wear headphones when there is music playing already. Another woman is wearing headphones so I feel less self-conscious about listening to my own music.

I try to write, but the girl a table over is side-eyeing me. Maybe I look familiar to someone she knows, as she looks familiar to me until I get a full view of her face. She wears an outfit identical to her companion.

What I manage to write is a couple of doodles, a paragraph and a tweet.

I leave to the corner store and buy a Redbull. On the walk home, I can’t stop thinking about the kind of image I reflect. It’s a big concern of mine as I don’t have an idea of the kind of person I am. The big one I’ve received is coke whore. I was told once that I had the thousand cock stare. A good insult, I admit, but it still hurts to think about.

I am wearing all black in the sun. I am that kid.

I try to take a picture of a broken pill bottle discarded behind a neighbour’s trash can without looking like a weirdo. It would have made a good picture for Instagram, but I didn’t want to post a stranger’s personal information on the internet. Maybe I should do that with my own pill bottle. I still have two refills on my Concerta, I remembered. It didn’t help and made my anxiety ten times worse than normal. I briefly consider start selling it, but it’s not really a fun drug. Just anxiety and a nagging need to be productive.

In the back lane behind my house I chug the Redbull and go inside.