I seem like a pretty normal person. I go to school. I eat. I sleep. I club baby seals. I come from a relatively normal household in a relatively normal neighborhood. I blend easily into the crowd. I’m a fairly respectable person. I’ve only killed one person. I’ve never been arrested. I don’t have a drinking problem. I’m not a rebellious child…

But I have a confession to make: I eat salad with my fingers because forks are for hoity-toity people. Oh, and I am a drug addict. That’s right. I am addicted. AND I eat salad with my fingers. I am physically dependent on drugs. Can’t live with’em. Can’t live without’em.

It all started innocently enough. I felt depressed. I didn’t feel like I fit in. Life just wasn’t satisfying anymore. I felt empty. Alone. All I wanted to do was curl up in the fetal position and cry like a toddler when he has to leave the ball pit at McDonalds.

So I started out small. I started with Zoloft, known on the streets as the Happy Pill, Smileys, and that-drug-that-makes-you-feel-better. It was okay. I felt better…some. The sky was a little greener, the grass a little bluer. But it couldn’t fill the void in my life. I still felt as friendless and lonely as Richard Simmons. Most of the world was still monochromatic, like Windows before the 256 color extravaganza. So I moved onto bigger and better things – Celexa. Every month or so I’d pay a discreet visit to the local drug lord, Beezlebub, at Walgreens. First I took one pill a day. Then it was two. Then it was 1,456. I just couldn’t seem to cop the same buzz I’d felt earlier in life...in third grade. So I moved on once again…to Wellbutrin. It’s not something I’m proud of. I don’t know why I did it. I just did. And I was hooked. I mean, I was not just hooked. I was, like, really hooked. More hooked than a fish with a fishing hook through its lip. Now hardly a day goes by when I don’t take my Wellbutrin. I can’t seem to stop popping pills. I am like Rush Limbaugh when Clinton was president, assuming he popped pills back then, which he probably didn’t but I like to think so. I even added some Risperdal to spice things up.

I’m told withdrawal symptoms include sadness, sleeplessness, and killing oneself. Yikes. How can I stop now? I spend one hundred fifteen dollars on drugs every month with insurance. I really can’t afford that. I am a college student. I need all my money to buy Coca-Cola and Starburst. I’m going to have to start selling my stockpiles of crack. Did I say crack? I mean…huh…I don’t know what I mean.

I can’t quit. I just can’t. There’s no escaping it. I’m addicted. And that’s my story, my sad, pathetic, little story. Feel free to feel sorry for me. And then send me money. Because you’re sorry for me. Or send me things that will make me happy, like money. After all, I am a hopeless drug addict and probably will be until the day I die, but I'd prefer to be a rich drug addict. Oh well.