This may explain a few things.

You take this miracle drug and it erases sadness. Not only does it erase sadness, but it fills you with happiness. And it's a happiness you've never felt before, and it's the first time you can remember having no sadness. You take it before bed and you sleep like you've never slept before and you wake up feeling complete and secure, as if someone had been lying beside you all night. You take it at work and it makes everything a lot more bearable. You take it at school and it makes everyone and everything else seem a lot more pleasant. It makes you a better person.

Everything is so good. You love this drug, man. And cause you're all fucked up, you believe that the drug loves you and the crazy part of your head is making you mental enough to think it will last a long time. Even though the supplies are limited and kept far away. But you have your hopes up, way the fuck up there, that the shipment will come in, or that you could pick it up, or both. You mark your goddamn calender. You anticipate, you become anxious, you worry, you fucking weep you pathetic bastard, and you call up and find out that it's not coming. It's not coming now and there's no chance it ever will.

And all the rationality, reason, dignity, emotional constraint, level-headedness that you at one time prided yourself for having is purged from your gut. It's all over the place and you see these things. These withdrawal symptoms. You see them and not only let your guard down, but you masochistically invite humiliation and embarrassment to bite your balls off. You keep calling and calling, sending messages, so forth, all in vain. And you fucking know what you're doing and you're sorry, dammit. You're watching yourself succumb to an obsession you've never had before. And though it isn't a public affair, luckily no one really knows what's going on, it's still such an embarrassment. You see yourself getting fucked in the ass by futility. You wish in one hand and you crap in the other. You piss up a rope and feel the pissy dribble.

Sigh sigh sigh. You'll never have it again. You'll also never really come to terms with that because that's just the way you are. Terms don't come to you, never. And alas, someone else is going to get it and use it responsibly, take the right dose, keep his act together, and his life is going to be filled with happiness; he will be so happy, that fucking jerk, he better goddamn appreciate it. By all means it was meant for you, for nobody else. That's unfair. It's shit. Because that heavenly zenith of happiness is now a torturous pit of loneliness. It seems like no substitute will do. You confessed a love for it, you flipping idiot. Not that you didn't mean it. You most certainly did. Because the fact that there exists a time in the past of extreme happiness reinforces the existence of love. Especially when you equate happiness with love. There was and always will be love for this beautiful, amazing, wonderful drug.

So now then. Goddamn shit like that fucking happens. And when it happens you write painfully obvious, hackneyed analogies, failing miserably at veiling melodrama. Digging just a little deeper before you start crawling out. It's what you do, you little rascal you. If this analogy is altogether transparent, you'd have no qualms pushing it aside and continuing to write about things like shopping and makeup and unsalted popcorn.

So you tuck your tail into your taint and keep your chin above the chutney. You fix yourself something to eat and warsh up and fuck mah wife. Touch your nose and blow your toes and move on to more important things.

Everyone I know has a big but. We'll talk about your big but in some time, ok.

Au revoir, Simone.