The Fix

The sunlight was making me sick to my stomach. I had an aversion to things that opened my eyes and I was worse for the wear--for good--apparently.

What a disappointment this had become--me driving down a dirt road in pursuit of Pixi sticks and bubblegum cigarettes. It was all turning into a newfound obsession with an old bad habit.

I found myself in need of sugar. Badly. And right now. All these semblances of things now out of my reach. I couldn't stop thinking about the candy that I had saved up for at the age of six and then hid in my pocket before dinner. I feared being caught and on one particular night, a Tuesday, in fact, I hid it in the wooden floorboard of my bedroom. The taste now must be abysmal. Unimaginable even. Why it took me this long to remember it is beyond me.

But what I think--what I really think, is that in these weeks and months and years leading up to this--the third decade--I'm just going to acquiesce to the fact that I'm a grasper of straws. Much to my own dismay, the sweet tooth is taking its toll. The pursuit has resulted in an unfortunate envy and worse yet, unproductiveness. Such is the great price of nostalgia and my yearning to touch the fabric on a beautifully hideous couch--a couch that once sat somewhere in my childhood and now rots with the candy in the graveyard of incomplete thoughts.