Oh sweet Xanax, how I miss you so. You pink, round, perfect little bitch. You came into my life after the The Cure, Morrissey, and Edward Scissorhands had turned me into a depressed and anxiety ridden mess. You took the deep, grooved channels of worry and filled them back in with your hard, hard heart – and I loved you for it. No man wants a mean girl? Fuck that. Every man wants a girl that’s a little bitchy. And you Xanax, you were the coldest of them all.
You whispered into my ear, soothing words, when the rest of the world had seemingly gone insane. I remember your warmth and wittiness like a sweet caress. At funerals, when everyone else was a mess, you taught me that, “everybody gotta die someday.” (You know how Britney Spears tries to sound like she’s black sometimes? Xanax does that too – cause she’s hip).
You could have a snake strike at your impenetrable ankle and you’d say “fuck dat snake” – grab it by its neck and toss it into a kid’s birthday cake, just for a laugh. Sometimes you had a sick sense of humor. Gallows humor some call it, but those in the know loved you for it.
I spent fifteen short years with you and you protected me from those deep, dark emotions that the world likes to wear on their sleeves like soft, flesh colored badges. You turned those badges into shameful marks of humanness that we’d laugh about when we were alone together – just you, me and a few beers (which made you even more of a callous bitch). We’d watch Titanic together just to see if we could get emotional when the ship went down, but the only thing that we felt was a slight pang of – “shit, kinda sucks drowning in a giant Slushee.”
But alas, you decided to move on (like I knew you would). The doctors said you were no good for me anymore – that you were a bad influence. I tried to argue but you’d already become distant. You weren’t as into me as you once were. This was some years ago, but I still think about you. I still yearn for your bitter taste in my now dry (ridiculously emotional) mouth.
One day you were there and the next you were gone. I always knew that you’d go that way. You weren’t much for long, drawn out goodbyes. Other men had tried to hang onto you for too long and you eventually had to murder them in their sleep. So I learned that this love affair had to be ripped away, like a poisonous band-aid that’s been there for so long that it’s become one with the skin.
I’ve kept a piece of you in my desk drawer. I don’t know why. It’s just a small half of you – something to remember you by. Maybe one day, before I die – you and me can have one last dance, and laugh at all those dumb asses that gather around my deathbed like weak little saps.
Until then, I’ll be weeping on the inside anytime I see injustice in the world, worrying about what people think of me, and wanting to stop eating meat because I feel sorry for chickens and cows. If you could see me now, you’d laugh in my face and I’d laugh with you – because wherever you’ve gone I know that you’re still one glorious bitch.