I picked myself off the floor that day. Anger, rage, hopelessness, fear, regret—they all tag teamed me at once and laughed in my stupid face. The devil himself was standing at the gates of my mind, wooing me with his sorceress lies, tempting me with that maddening fruit. It was when my friend came out from the bathroom, bloodshot eyes looking at me head to toe, and told me that I had been out of control. That I had entered a swinging contest, and had had unprotected sex with a half dozen girls before passing out in the bedroom before someone dragged me out into the living room and laid me beside the garbage can. It was that moment that I realized, if I hadn’t already caught the crotch rot, infused myself with an AIDS ridden needle, or magnified some imaginary tumor in my head and taken ten years off my life or more, that I would walk away from this life and consider myself lucky to be unscathed. No, drugs were not an option for me. Not anymore.