Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(58)

    I know if people have the personality for Xanax, or if they will do better on a lighter sleeping pill, like Sonata (generic brand is Zaleplon). I also know that Xanax isn’t a sleeping pill, but that’s what I use it for. Adderall is good for some people, but too much for certain personality types. High-energy people like myself do not need Adderall, no matter how tired you are, unless you want to wake up in the middle of the night cracking your knuckles. If you like Adderall, you should also look into Provigil or Nuvigil. That’s what people in the government and the military use when they travel through different time zones. Provigil is the best thing I have ever taken for jet lag, or if I really need to focus. But again, if you have a knuckle-cracking problem, then you might want to start with a half. There is nothing I love more than getting on an international flight, popping a Xanax, and sleeping for twelve hours straight, but I have become so disgusted with the pharmaceutical industry in this country, I have redirected that passion and dedication into the healthier alternative—cannabis.

“Chelsea,” Glen said, putting his fork down. “You should be a late-stage companion. That’s something you could do. You’re fun. Something activity-based, somewhere by the mountains, or a pool. Older men seem to be drawn to you, you’d get hired all the time.”

“Who’s in the late stage? Me or the companion?” I asked.

“The companion,” Shana said, laughing. “Always the companion. You have a lot in common with older people.”

“This can be the perfect foil for your identity crisis, Chelsea. Since you can no longer date older guys, this is a way you can still hang out with them all the time.” Glen wiped his mouth and took a sip of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, which he had brought to my house. Glen and I are a lot alike. We find something we like, then abuse it for two months, and then we’re on to the next thing. Glen was having a Mike’s Hard Lemonade renaissance, and although I was repulsed, I understood it.

    “Chelsea,” Glen asked, “in your professional opinion, what procedure do you think Donald Trump is getting to make his face look like it does?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I don’t think he’s actually getting work done to look that bad. What he should be doing is resurfacing the texture of his skin, and at the very least, getting the fat sucked out from underneath his eyes. And maybe lipo, but he obviously can’t even see clearly, if he thinks that what he’s presenting is presentable. His ass is the size of Bert’s—that should be first on his to-do list.”

“You don’t think he’s doing stuff to his mouth?” Glen asked. He was being serious, so I looked up.

“Like what?”

“Is there some sort of surgical procedure or face treatment that makes your mouth look more like an anus?”

I had to think about that.

“I don’t know anything about that. I mean, people usually make their lips bigger, not more anus-like.”

“He may think that it looks good. It’s as if his mouth keeps getting tighter and smaller.”

I liked the idea of Donald Trump sewing his mouth closed, one surgical procedure at a time.

    “This country has had a rough year.” Glen sighed.

“Men have had a rough year,” Shana said and laughed, looking at Glen.

“Well, you only have yourselves to blame. It’s a wrap on old white men,” I said.

“Yeah,” Shana said, walking back to the table, a frozen ham in her hands. “Are you saving this for a special occasion?” She was definitely stoned if she wanted to cook a ham. I redirected my attention back to the only male in the room.

“Let me tell you a little story. Every week I go to the nail salon, where I get a massage on my forearms after my manicure. Getting a massage on my forearms is the closest thing I can relate to what getting a hand job must feel like. It’s so specifically terrific, I could easily see myself climaxing at a nail salon, but I don’t. That is the difference between men and women. We are more prone to controlling ourselves.”

“Yes,” Glen agreed, most women are. “But I would place you in the category of people who have trouble controlling themselves. It’s a good thing you weren’t born with male genitalia.”

“I can guarantee that if I were, you would still never find me jerking off into a fucking plant.”

“Who did that?” Glen asked, laughing.

“I don’t know. One of those guys. Louis C.K. or Harvey Weinstein. One of them jerked off into a plant. I mean, seriously.”

“Can you imagine jerking off into a plant?” Glen asked, disgusted. “What is wrong with everyone?”

“I’m stoned, high, drunk, and stoned,” Shana said, with the frozen ham tucked into her armpit.

    “You’re not drunk,” I reassured her, and guided her upstairs to my bathroom, where I placed the frozen ham on the floor of the infrared sauna and told Shana it would be ready first thing in the morning.

“Is the sauna even on?” she asked.

“Yes,” I told her as I guided her to my bed. “How do you feel?” I asked as we climbed into bed.

“Super warm and fuzzy,” she told me. I got out my medical journal and made a note of her condition.

“And hungry?” I asked her. I had been working tirelessly on finding the right mixture of ingredients that didn’t give you the munchies.