Megan

Megan is a rich California girl stoner, who formerly appeared in OGW, Dec.3.  Her friend Stacy wrote OGW, Jan.21.

Megan:  Today it’s my birthday!  (da naa naa na naa naa)

Lying on the floor, smelling carpet.  Cigarette burning, ashes falling without me having to tap it, my hand floating over the ashtray.

Suspended animation.

I’m all, “I don’t think we’re gonna make the movie,” and Stacy’s like, “Why not?” and I’m like, “’Cause I can’t get off the floor,” and she’s all hardee har har.

Well, outta Stase, it’s more like, “p-ha-ha (hiccup) hee hee p-ha-ha, hee” cause she’s trying not to laugh too hard, she’s trying to act all together and not ass-kicked, on the floor, STONED.  She’s like, “Did you ever notice how everything comes in three’s?”

I heard on the east coast, which is where my sister Angela goes to Hah-vard, there’s like no such thing as Chronic. (!!!)  Angela says there’s like “B” weed, and people charge a heap and it’s not even “A” weed, and I’m all, “I’m there, sista, gonna pack up my trunk full of chronic and drive out there this summer and sell it,” but she’s such a downer, she’s like, “Megan they’re going to send you back to rehab if you don’t shape up,” and I’m all, whatever, bitch.

Stacy says, “If you drive across country with your trunk full of weed, you have to be careful, remember that Stephen King book with the cop with the melting face and shit who like threw those people in jail and was going to send them to hell or some shit, like remember that?  It was like called like Deliverance or whatever—“

“Deliverance was a movie.”

“Yeah, this was a movie.  Ohh my God!  And remember that other movie!  Texas Chainsaw Massacre, right?  Don’t drive through Texas.”

“I know, right?”

The chronic we smoked after school today is my favorite, it’s called Blueberry, and Stacy’s bro knows the grower so we get it lots and also this other weed called Spaceland, which is Stacy’s favorite—

What was—is someone at the door?  I’m so fucking doomed if--

No.  Getting paranoid. 

Feeling my toes dig into the carpet, feeling like it’s totally interesting, but then why am I feeling sweaty and now I’m getting nauseous and crap oh crap I’m having a panic attack is someone at the door is my face melting I wanted to go to the movies and now I can’t and if someone’s at the door I’m fucking dooooomed I’m screwwwwed I’m fucked up and sweating and this weed is so strong you do half a hit and you’re on the floor and that’s cool that’s cool Megan that’s cool don’t freak out I’m freaking out I need to stay up to stay out to--

“Give me another hit, now Stase, now!”

I suck on the bong.  Bongs are gross.  The way they gurgle is like a whole lot of spit in the throat of this glass beast.  Hate bongs, but you can’t smoke chronic in a joint cause Stacy’s brother’s friend says it’s like so not cool and it wastes the good weed and you have to use a bong—

Shit.  Head hit the carpet.  Staring into the fibers, it’s dark down here.

See the net underneath, holds the fibers together, makes a carpet for my face to rest on.  Can’t close my eyes.

Monsters inside.