The problem is that most of the other writers in my writing workshop only write about drugs if they are doing said drugs. It seems silly to pretend that you have done a certain drug, or to write about it authentically if it hasn’t happened to you. My drug of choice happens to be the color yellow and the size and shape of a corgi, but if you ask me to whallop a hit of the drug I can load it up into a needle and inject it into an unblemished vein and you can see all of my veins turn yellow. One time I was sitting at the edge of a pool and my friend Roberto died at the bottom, his hair caught in in the drain and I was high and thought the bubbles were part of the pool, like a jacuzzi except it was a man-powered one. At Roberto’s funeral I was still high, and everyone knew because my veins were yellow and my hair was beginning to get yellow at the roots, and the worst part maybe was the way everyone was looking at me. If you hold your hands out and examine your wrists, you can see the color of your veins, and I think blue, red and yellow aren’t the only colors you can bleed. That’s just a theory of mine, one that I’ve had since I’ve gotten clean (in one way or another). It wasn’t the drug’s fault, the drain’s fault, or Roberto’s.
Connor Miller is a writer, personality, and web developer currently living in Portland, Oregon. He has written novels, poetry, and web articles, and also does freelance work as a social media director for artists. He spends most of his time reading and writing in cafes around town. You can follow him on Twitter @ConnorTheMiller.
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