High

I’m remembering why I was such a stoner in college.

I was an uptight, naïve kid that needed to loosen up. Marijuana absolutely did the trick.

There are the fondest of memories inside a tiny bedroom in an attic apartment in a particular Midwestern college town. Sitting in front of a cheap department store stereo, baked out of my mind on the sorriest excuse for weed my stoner roommates could help me score.

I’d sit there and listen to the Smashing Pumpkins and My Bloody Valentine and just bug the fuck out. Drink some cheap beer (usually some Busch Light Draft in cans, God help us all), maybe nom out on some Little Debbie snack cakes from the store on the corner. Life was good.

Riding my girlfriend’s purple bike across campus late at night, imagining all of the brilliant and amazing things we were going to do together. Our babies would be so beautiful she would laugh in that tinkly laugh that would never fail to make my insides flutter. I was young, brash, so very ready to rule my corner of the world with this gorgeous woman next to me, making me better just by her presence.

Of course none of it came to pass. I just saw pictures of her first baby on Facebook. Another man’s child, so innocent and sweet, unknowing of the twist inside my gut at the sight of him.

When it was all said and done, the only thing left was me, a duffel bag and an eighth of marijuana in an SRO hotel in Chicago.

I haven’t thought of the Chicago years in forever. Not really. That was such a severe time. There was a period where I was living in the Ambassador East hotel on somebody else’s dime, for fuck’s sake. What? How did any of that ever happen is so beyond me now.

To have made it through all of that to get here now is why I’m doing what I’m about to do. I didn’t survive all of THAT only to just kind of drift away. The plan was set a long time ago. I’ve just been taking my time about putting it into effect now that we’re here.

When I burn through yet another bowl of this designer marijuana that I now have delivered to my door, it somehow connects me to that dork in college trying so desperately to fit in, and get laid, and build something that would last forever. Two out of three ain’t bad.

If you never tell a story

I can’t find anymore of me. I think they’ve all grown up, gotten married and had children. At least that’s how it looks on Facebook.

“Ah, what the fuck is that about?” You scoff, and rightfully so. But it’s my only real conduit into the lives of normal adult people types. I see their profile pictures of robust and healthy babies, and digitally leaf through albums with titles like “My favorite photos of Sanchin yet!!”

I am what you would call a Man of a Certain Age. Back home, I might as well be an albino poker champion. Everyone wants to be around the freak, and there’s always a whiff of easy sex and wanton abandon lurking under the table.

Needless to say, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time trolling Expedia. I might as well give the people what they want. And maybe, just maybe, there will be some left over for me.

I just wish I wasn’t so fucking cheap. Thanks, dad.

If I would only let myself, I could afford a couple of trips over autumnal months. The first one would be to take in the fall foliage, scream at myself that if I don’t do it now I never will and will die a miserable abject failure and it will be all my own fault so get off your fucking ass and fucking do it already you miserable fuck over and over, and (finally) to connect with a certain female I used to know there.

She’s a Woman of a Certain Age. She’s had lots of issues with drugs and men in the past. I had totally forgotten, but her and I actually made out exactly once. It was when I was a DJ at this club. There was one night when the party really went off and it was all sweaty and warm and open and sexy and good. When it was over she came in to the DJ booth with her roommate and they took turns making out with me. It was fucking awesome. How could I forget a story like that?

This is where the screaming at myself part comes in.

The second trip back would be over Thanksgiving. Now that I think of it, that one is probably more important than I was even realizing. That one is kind of at the crux of the screaming. Yes, that one needs to happen. OK, good to know.

I know it’s a long shot, but Thanksgiving weekend in the land of my birth has the potential to be everything that I’ve lazily been imagining of late.

It started with fucking Facebook, of all things. She randomly hit me up on the site’s instant messaging system. We talked. A lot. About many things. She asked when I was going home again. She told me that she was going home at Thanksgiving, and that it would be nice to see me.

Considering what happened the last time we saw each other, I’m a fool for not already having the trip booked. Even just the hint that it could be anything like that is the fire that stokes my soul. It makes me feel “the feeling” and the lines begin to blur and then it’s sparkly magical dreamland time.

“Why not?” She implored with a smile. “Why not?”

Even though she's not here, I can still hear her voice. Even though she'll never be here again, I can still feel her hair coarse on my face. Even though.