I have what you need. I have your youth. I have the euphoria you checked at the door when you stood at the altar, defended your dissertation, said yes to that job you never wanted. Not my fault you can’t move forward. Not my fault you made promises you don’t feel like keeping. My legs can’t save you. My weed can’t save you. Even when I go looking for your special orders. Your coke. Your oxy. Your ecstasy. I make my trades and I bring you your goods. And still, you can’t be happy.
