August 2011

“Things aren’t going to change as much as you think they are,” he says, his voice comforting to my vicodin-laced consciousness. “I’m still going to make fun of you for saying silly things, and be around to smack you when you’re being stupid.”

“Gee… thanks. That really could mean either way.” I use of the back of my hand to swipe at tears on my cheeks. I tell myself that the pain of having my wisdom teeth removed is the reason why I’m so emotional, why I’ve admitted so many faults and fears to him during this conversation. S’s called me from three hundred miles away to see how the surgery went, and to tease me for any “blazed” comments I may make. Instead, he’s received a Naseem whose drug-induced co...

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