As some of you may know, I had some teeth out last Friday. The dentist (well, oral surgeon), after he asked about where I went fishing and ignored the smobuk, gave me a prescription for Percocet.
Now, one of the reasons I don’t indulge in mind-altering substances is fear: I’m somewhat scared of my willpower issues with stuff I like to do, and I already spend enough money on books and food. I’m aware that this is neurotic, as no one in my family has had a history of addiction, but I don’t care enough to bring it up in therapy.
As a result of the foregoing, I left the percocet scrip unfilled.
When I told people about my decision, their overwhelming response: “You’re gonna fill that, right? I mean, you might need it for your back. Or I might need it…for, um, my glaucoma or something.”
For a moment, for just a moment, I imagined myself as a more popular Walter White. I would call myself “the Candyman”, and dressed in shades and a black leather jacket, I would drive around the NoVA area, merrily dispensing percocet to the needy. People would whisper my name at parties, and after a quick call to my burner, I would appear- stubbly, rough-hewn, eyes gleaming devilishly. With a knowing smirk, I would tap a few pills into the palm of my hand and scatter them among the crowd.
And then I would vanish into the night. I would speak not a word and retreat to my secret sanctum in Virginia where I would wait until called on again.
Sure I would. I’d also get a fauxhawk and pop my collar.
I’m surprised at the nonchalance with which my peer group views prescription meds, but if they really want this stuff, I’ma let ’em get their own teeth pulled.