Here’s an embarrassing confession: I never have. Not once. Not anything. I was a law-and-order kid in (Catholic) high school. At age 17 I had more chance of finding my way to the moon than to a place to buy (pot? grass? what did we call it, anyway.) And I never started drinking because genetically, the way I metabolize alcohol makes me a prime candidate for alcoholism. Lots of family history to support that one.
So now if I need a bump, what do I do? Sugar is the obvious option, but it’s not very effective. Caffeine doesn’t agree with me. Exercise! That does it for a lot of people… I hate it. I can’t remember which one, but some astronaut said that he only had so many heart beats in his life, and he wasn’t wasting any of them on jogging. (And please don’t comment to tell me about the logical fallacy in that statement.)
As an A-type personality I used to daydream about speed. Speed, I was convinced, would be good. I could get more done. I would lose weight. Who needs to sleep anyway? But I’m not so self destructive that I would actually pursue this kind of fantasy.
People tell me how great it is that I’m writing full time. But you know what? I would love to be employed by somebody besides myself. It’s hard always having to motivate yourself. If I play solitaire all day long inspite of a looming deadline, there’s nobody there to poke me into activity. I’ve got to be a grownup all the time. Thus the fantasy (and it is a fantasy, I have no illusions about that) of some perfect drug that would provide that push.
Now I have to get back to work.