I took the biggest poop of my whole entire life that Sunday morning: the holy day of rest.

Benji said that was normal 'post-shrooms' and called it the 'purge of bad vibes', but I told him I heard it was called the 'please never say that again and also please stop knocking, I'll be done soon'.

Apart from that, I felt the best that I had, sober, in a long time.

Placebo effect or not, there was an abnormal pep to my step. When we were all finally awake, right around noon, I asked Sam to give me a makeover for the 'Midwestern Emo' show tonight. However she wanted; I needed something fresh.

"So, what's going on with the Benj', eh?" I teased as I buckled myself into the passenger seat of Sam's Ford Explorer, which smelled like hand sanitizer and strawberry perfume.

Sam groaned.

"I hate that I like him so much. I just, I don't know... I feel awful because I don't know if I'm leading him on or not."

"Did you guys hook-up?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Definitely not. After we came inside, I stared at the carpet and then the washing machine's spin for a few hours. Then I passed out on the couch watching Bob Ross," Sam explained flatly.

She was sitting in the driver's seat, hands dangling loosely next to her as she looked straight ahead at Benji's red front door. Her eyes darted, deciding.

"I don't know. I guess I'm struggling with... his choice of occupation," she admitted, looking to me for reassurance.

Oh right, he's a drug dealer.

Oof.

"Yeah, that's not ideal," I admitted, but I didn't know what else to say. I'd never had to justify dating a drug dealer before.

We were still in our pajamas, with our hair up and our teeth unbrushed when I started looking around at the buildings and mailboxes and trees of Benji's townhouse subdivision, with a familiar feeling prickling at my spine.

Have I been here before?

I brushed the thought away, chalking it up to an after-effect of my trip, which I was still reeling from.

I understand why celebrities do those weird ayahuasca cleanses now!

"What about you, huh? How was it? You went to sleep pretty much as soon as you left that damn tree!" Sam changed the subject and a toothy grin appeared on her face as she threw the car into reverse, black-fingernailed pinky lifted.  The AC blasted cool air to keep up with the heat outside. 

"Terrifying and beautiful," I responded thoughtfully, pausing. "Honest."

Sam laughed.

"Sorry you tripped so hard! Some people have a lower tolerance. Just don't develop some weird God complex or turn into a pretentious prick and we'll be good! Spirituality and shrooms go great together, but not so much self-importance and shrooms. Connect; Don't collect." She advised.

It was not lost on me that if I'd heard her say these things a week ago, I would've laughed. Instead I sat in silence, thinking. 

Connect; Don't Collect

I didn't like how the mantra made me feel about... well, anything.

A decade of probable depression had rotted that hopeful, connecting part of my brain. I hadn't heard from it in years. 

Without the objectivity that the shrooms had shared, the years wasted was a gutturally painful and anxiety-inducing realization. But, if I dwelled on that now I'd never get anywhere. Panic.

Is this something I could even do?

"Hey, Sam?" I peeped, terrified.

"Hm?"

"If... uh... hypothetically speaking I was considering... considering ending my enga-"

The car screeched into a gas station parking lot and Sam slammed on the breaks. The back of my head smacked into the headrest.

"Woo! Let's go!" She cheered, one hand on the wheel and one hand in a fist. The skeleton hula-girl on her dashboard danced on its rusted, squeaking spring as Sam beamed at me. She was over-excited and barely containing it in her rattling body. It was vaguely chihuahua-like.

I crossed my arms.

"What? Okay, sorry. Didn't expect it so soon; you must've been chomping at the bit for a while now!" She chirped, giggling and pulling into a blurry-lined parking spot at the Dolphin Coast Gas & Gifts. Sam continued, even after I shot her a glare. 

"But seriously, I'm proud of you for even asking; I should've started with that. We have all kinds of townhouses and apartments here; pretty afforda - I'm sorry; that's a bit presumptuous of me, actually. I'm sure your first pick wouldn't be - "

"I want to be here... in this theoretical situation, that is," I cut her off numbly, unbuckling my seatbelt with clammy fingers and getting out of the car. 

The shrooms broke my brain, didn't they?

"Well, we don't have to talk budget," Sam started as she held open the jingling front door of the convenience store, plastered in disintegrating local advertisements. "But do you have your own money? What jobs have you worked before? Or were you in school at any point?"

Had a feeling those were coming...

My cheeks were hot and there was a growing pressure behind my eyes when I responded.

"No, not really. I get a decent allowance but it'll stop if Dean and I split. No job experience, either. Nothing."

"That's okay! What do you want to do?" She chirped. I watched her pick up a strawberry Pop-tart packet and read the back of it with a focused look on her face.

"I haven't really put much thought into it, I guess." I tried not to sound too embarrassed.

"Well, let's."

Sam held onto the Pop-tart as we wandered over to the beer fridges. It smelled like moss balls and stale incense sticks and the balding man smacking gum at the counter was checking us out. We both tried to ignore it.

I was struggling to imagine myself in any job, especially any job that was attainable to me around here: gas station attendant, bartender, stripper probably. I shuddered.

"Ah, forget it. Never mind."

I'd make a fool out of myself in any job that I worked, anyways.

Sam sighed.

The front door jingled, warm bells striking my ear drums. Peripheral hearing.

I yanked out some Seltzers and tucked the chilly cardboard box into my armpit, holding it against my too-warm body, my red-and-white snowflake pajama pants too insulating for the summer heat. They were getting the funeral-pyre-treatment in my head. 

It's June! Not Christmas! Why did I pack these?

"Ho-Ho-Who is this?" Struck my ears and I thought that I was still hallucinating when Santa Claus appeared, dressed in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a red baseball cap. His hands were on his hips.

You don't know me, but I know you, old man.

"Mr. Andrews!" Sam exclaimed, running over. She gave the bearded man a side hug. He hugged her back, his cheeks rounded by a smile, aged teeth barely visible through a dense white mustache.

"Hey kiddo!" He greeted her before pulling away.

The local veterinarian approached me with kind eyes, his blue irises a gleaming ring as his hairy-backed hand reached out for me to shake. I accepted the offer. His older hands were dry and calloused, large flat palms with thick fingers and I wondered if this was what my dad's hands felt like.

Probably not. I doubt that my dad had callouses.

"I'm June, nice to meet you. Sam told me a lot about you." I introduced myself. Andrews gave Sam a soft-eyed smile at my words before releasing my hand and backing away, crossing his arms atop the swell of his belly. Smiling at me.

"June! Your name has certainly come up as well, my friend. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

"Good things, I hope!" I could feel the bubbly and genuine air to Gus' speaking rubbing off on me, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. He was too powerful.

"Don't you worry, sweetie. Everyone had very nice things to say about you!"

Everyone? I'm sure not everyone at the office did...

"What are you up to on your day off?" Sam asked him, cocking her head to the side. Her oversized Danny Phantom t-shirt looked effortless hanging off of one shoulder and I wished that I looked as good in pajamas as she did. A toilet flushed on the other side of the wall.

"Kathy and I are hosting Nate tonight for dinner - Wait a minute! Do you two have plans?" His voice got higher. Hopeful.

Nate?

"Sorry! We do... have plans, I mean... but maybe next time?" I stuttered out, playing with my now-lightly-trembling fingers. Hearing his name had shaken me. Annoying.

To my dismay, Mr. Andrews didn't let us leave until we had a concrete plan for 'next time': next Saturday at six. We promised to pack an overnight bag. He side-hugged us both goodbye and I cringed, painfully aware that I was a little overdue for deodorant, but he smelled like sweet mint and tobacco and I wondered if that was what my dad smelled like.

Probably. Maybe. Doesn't really matter.

"I'm surprised that Nate hangs out with him," I said to Sam a couple hours later, as she fumbled through her sticker-wrapped dresser drawers, pulling out options for my outfit tonight. A punk record spun in the corner. Thumping.

"Mr. Andrews? Those two have been close for years. Nate started volunteering with the shelter at like, fifteen or sixteen or something..."

Sam trailed off, throwing a couple of black garments over her forearm before continuing.

"...I'm not sure how much they hang out, to be honest. Nate's more of a family guy than anything."

I nodded my head, wanting to pry but knowing that I shouldn't.

It doesn't matter, anyways.

At least I have Cervix Destruction to look forward to.

In more ways than one, hopefully.