Don't Forget to Write

Finals

Finals were upon us, and with that came big paydays for me. I had become the person to employ for an A on your papers if you had a few hundred dollars to spend, which, surprisingly, a lot of kids did. I was writing two or three papers a day, taking on so many jobs I had to cut my own classes to meet deadlines. The sleep deprivation, caffeine, and amphetamines were making me paranoid that the librarians and teachers were catching on to me. Was it paranoia? Or was I making perfect sense? Either way, my policy on payments through private online money transfers. If a cash transaction was necessary, I conducted it the same way I used to sell pot in the old days - in sketchy alleyways, bathrooms, and stairwells (places where there weren't any cameras). Everybody seemed to be getting involved in my "Pay to Pass" system.

One day I was in the library writing and someone sat next to me. I didn't pay much attention to it. My headphones were blasting J Cole and my eyes were hyper-focused on some kid's psychology paper. My head was buzzing from a fresh 30mg Instant Release Adderall and the paper was practically writing itself. I could hardly move my fingers fast enough to keep up with what my brain was composing. I was in "the zone". A moment like this is equivalent to when an athlete has a hot-streak, where they perform at a level far above what they're usually capable of. It's a short-lived stroke of brilliance. I've been told that the difference between pros and amateurs is that pros know how to summon that mental zone, whereas an amateur only has it summoned upon them at random.

I was an amateur, and the brilliance had been summoned upon my writing. For how long, I didn't know. Maybe only a few minutes. Maybe it wasn't even a stroke of brilliance, but just the drugs working very well. Who knows. These in the zone moments had been happening more frequently lately, probably because of the sheer amount of time I had spent with my fingers dancing along keys. Or, again, possibly because of how many attention-enhancers I'd been popping.

I was almost done with this paper and was preparing to open a new document for myself to scribble a poem or a story or a rambling thought - whatever the hell came out when I opened the release valve in my brain and siphoned the chaos out of my skull, down through my cursed heart, out of my fingers to the page. The zone was strong. I was buzzing. Absolutely BUZZING. I would lose my mind if I didn't write something. I was already going mad... Is this what happened to Hunter S Thompson? That blessed soul, that ark angle of experimental recreational drug use, icon of literature, god of CHAOS.

I finished the psychology paper and opened up a blank document, ready to pour my soul out on the page, when there was a poking on my shoulder. I jumped half out of my seat, suddenly remembering I was in a public place with other people. I had forgotten there was a world outside of the words. I stared at the man who poked me, who dared to drag me out of my world. He looked scared.

"Hey man," he said.

"Hi."

"What's up?"

"Not to be rude, but do I know you?"

"No, just making conversation."

"This is a library, not a bar. I'm not here for conversation," I said, far more snarky than usual. I could feel my heartbeat in my god damn temples! I had taken too many pills. I would have a heart attack in this god damn library. Especially if this idiot kept giving me lip.

"Is that how you're gonna treat one of your own brothers?"

"Brother?"

"Me and you! We're different from everybody else here."

"Why?"

"C'mon, do ya need me to spell it out for you?"

I said nothing. He pointed to his face, then my face. Still not understanding, I stayed silent. If I went long enough without speaking, maybe he would leave me alone. My eyes were darting around the room. I needed to FOCUS on something damn it! The amphetamines were taking control of my thoughts.