My 13-Step Program

"Heya sam.. C'mere fura second wouldyaa"
James is calling me over, but I know I shouldnt go.
Wait.
Why are my feet moving.
Why are my lips curling.
Why in the hell am I smiling and giddily skipping over to James berndahan.
My gut is telling me over and over again to stop. To turn back now before it's too late.
But my poor, intoxicated brain, is screaming at me to carry on.
I don't try to fight it.
I reach the destination my drunk body has set for me, and I peer into a bowl full of prescription meds. Before I know what I'm doing, my hand has already stuffed it's way to the bottom and yanked it's way back up, revealing a whopping bounty of brightly colored and weirdly shaped pills.
Before I can gather my intoxicated thoughts, my hand finds it's way to my mouth in which it momentarily stops.

Don't worry Sam, this is what everyone does at a party.
Live a little.
What's the worst that could happen anyway?
The pleads from my brain eventually overwhelm me
And I shove the pills in.