You can run but you can’t hide
I didn’t drink much in high school, a rare out-of-character move for me at a time when I was basically trying to do everything I wasn’t supposed to as quickly as I could. So it is ironic that in spite of the fact that I smoked whatever I was able to get my hands on, the rumor, a result of my strangely pink cheeks, was that I was an alcoholic.
Whereas these days my pink cheeks are long gone but I still have an impressively terrible memory and a strain of spacey ditziness that, in spite of my father’s best efforts, has persisted long past my stoner days. Last night, for example, I asked my coworkers the kind of random question that pops into my head sometimes (which one of us was most likely to run for president—it seemed logical at the time) and was informed that not only had we already had this conversation a month earlier (prompted, no doubt, by me), I had even given the same answer. Meanwhile, earlier in this conversation I had made a comment about how it really is strange that two people can work equally hard and yet make such different salaries, which I know is obvious and all but still pretty crazy if you really think about it. (“You sound like you’re stoned,” it was pointed out.) And this after two different recent conversations ended with me rambling on about aliens. I am not even that into aliens! But something about the way my brain glazes over when I stare at a computer for too long and the unfortunate tic I have of responding to someone who appears to think I’m weird by acting weirder and weirder must collude in such a way that I end up rambling on about aliens. So yeah, it would not be unreasonable to assume I’m pretty into getting high. And this would be ironic, since while I eventually did start drinking, it’s been a long time since I had any interest in doing anything else.
