Tripping Down 12 Steps Into Malibu

Admiting You Have A Problem

Ryan wasn't in the mood for pointless small talk. He wasn't in the mood anything besides putting his shit up and going to bed.

He thought the kid would have gotten the hint when he walked in and ignored him. But no! The guy had to go and introduce himself. So Ryan thought if he was standoffish, the kid would get the hint. But again, No! So Ryan had to result to what Ryan did best. Being an asshole.

And finally, Brendon got it. He laid down and shut the fuck up.

Ryan put the last of this things into the drawer. Slamming it shut as hard as he could without breaking it. This was going to be the worst time of his fucking life. Not that his life was peachy before this. But at least he had the drugs to numb shit. Here all he had was a suitcase full of shit and an annoying roommate.

He sat on the edge of his bed. Lifting up the pamphlet they'd handed out in the group meeting. The first step to recovery was written on the front. Decorated in bright colors and fun fonts. As though that was supposed to make people forget they were fucking addicts trapped in a bullshit rehab center.

We must first be willing to admit we have a problem.

Even the start of the program was cliche and predictable.

Ryan didn't have a problem. Since when was doing a few fun drugs a problem? In the seventies it was a way of life. But now it was a crime? Damn he must have been born in the wrong time.

It wasn't like he needed crack to survive. He'd gone long periods of time without having any. It wasn't technically an addiction because he could stop whenever he wanted to. It was more of a hobby. And he didn't have a problem with his hobby. Other people did. He was perfectly content with how his life was going.

Maybe the first step should be admitting other people have a problem with your lifestyle. At least that one would be true.

He tossed the pamphlet away from him. But of course it didn't go far. It circled in the air before floating back down to his feet. He kicked it away with the toe of his shoes.

He felt so agitated. Maybe he just needed to sleep. At least this godforsaken place got the right kind of bed spread. He scooted back onto the bed. Engulfing himself into the many pillows surrounding his head. His eyelids slid shut. Blacking out his vision. Giving him the freedom to imagine himself anywhere else.

So Ryan imagined himself back at his own apartment. Sitting on the expensive leather couch that's he'd damaged with old beer spills and cigarette burns. It was messy, but it was home.

He pictured himself lying back on the couch. The large TV hanging on the wall was playing his favorite oldies show. He'd look down at the coffee table he always rested his feet on. His favorite rocks would be scattered over the table. Ranging from yellow to pale rose to white. And his pipe! That'd be sitting just at the corner of the table. Almost to the edge. Threatening to fall. But Ryan wouldn't let it fall. That pipe was his baby. He'd had it for years.

He'd lean over and lift up his trusty pipe. Handing it like the treasure it was. It was always so hard to pick which rocks he wanted. Since he was in an adventurous mood, he'd take one of each. Slipping it into the open hole. Jingling them around a little just to hear that soothing sound.

He'd dig into pocket for the lighter, but of course it wouldn't be there. He never got the right pocket on the first try. So he'd dig in the other one. Pulling out the lighter he probably stole from one of his friends. Hell, he could have taken or from his dealer.

The usual euphoric atmosphere would engulf him. Like it always did when he was about to light up. Nothing else mattered because there was nothing else when he was high.

His thumb would flick against the rough back of the lighter. One. Twice. Three times before that welcoming flame finally reared its head. His fingers would warm instantly from the heat. And finally he'd bring the lighter to the top of the pipe. The rocks would began to heat up. The smokey aroma would fill the air like a scented candle as he prepared for the first inhale of the-

Snoring?

Someone was fucking snoring!

The sound snatched Ryan from his imagination. Bringing him back to the real world. Lying on his back. On a soft bed. In a rehabilitation center.

He sat up to glare over at the culprit. His roommate was snuggled up with his pillows. Sound asleep. Snoring way too loudly for Ryan's liking. He jumped to his feet. A fleeting thought egged him to use one of those very pillows to cover the snoring man's face until he couldn't snore anymore. Until he couldn't even breathe.

Why did he have to wake him up! He was just getting to the good part.

Fuck it, he didn't need his imagination. He didn't need any of this shit.

He took the few steps to get back to the dresser he'd just filled. He dug through the top drawer for his favorite green shirt. Pulling it out and sitting it on top. He unfolded each side gently. Bringing his infamous pipe into view. He looked at the top part. Smiling when he noticed none of the rocks had fallen in their journey here. He tapped his pocket for the lighter. Smiling yet again when he remembered it was in the other one.

He picked up the pipe and walked to the bathroom. Slamming and locking the door behind him. He was so happy Jon was right about this place. They were way too fancy to think they'd have to check the guest.

That euphoric feeling he'd been imagining came to reality when he flicked the flame to life on the lighter. The sizzling sound of the crack rocks heating was music to his ears. He took the first puff and almost cried at the golden familiarity.

So maybe he did have a problem.

Oh fucking well!