Sex and Drugs

I just refused crystal meth and sex from a guy with a black belt and a beautiful Fatboy Harley. What the hell is wrong with me? When did I get so fucking wholesome? A year ago there would have been no hesitation. I’d have been high and naked by now. These days it’s all different. I’m not sure I like it. As I walked down the path to my car, I thought, “what the hell are you doing, Mary? Get back in there, take a good puff on the pipe and take your top off!” But I kept right on walking. I feel so boring.

I know technically, I guess, that it’s a turn for the better. But I feel so disappointed somehow. The days of drugs and sex were so kinda exciting, and it seems sad that they seem to be over. I mean – lies lies! – there are still low-level drugs and I’m sure I’ll get laid again at *some* stage in the future.

Sometimes I’m glad that’s all behind me. The wondering if that last hit was one too many, the comedowns, the freak-outs, the possibility that this latest stranger could be some psycho. But then it seems like all that’s left is a slow descent into middle-agedness.

Oh, I know, I know! There’s so many other good and joyful things to do with life! It’s just… I guess it’s always been a big part of what I think about myself. I’m the sort of girl who enjoys sex and drugs. Even in the past when I haven’t regularly been doing those things, I always considered that I would if I weren’t in a relationship, or if the opportunity presented itself or whatever. Now I’m the sort of girl who refuses free class A drugs. I’m a *good* girl. How did this happen to me?