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"I'm thinking about developing a hard drug habit," she announced to her friend."Please don't say that." Her friend replied. She shrugged. It was true. She was bored as hell, and generally disappointed. Her friend turned and gave her a Look, which meant that there was no more discussing this. She just wanted to feel something, anything different from the quiet desperation that had been growing over summer. It was now Fall, and still she felt the same.

The 80s movie they were watching was kind of depressing. 80s movies always depressed her. The hair - the Aquanetted, teased perms, the exaggerated waves leftover from the 70s. The music- oh, the music. Synthesizers, excessive use of saxophones. The big, boxy, pastel colored clothes. Surely they must have known how bad they looked back then, right? Hard to say. They probably thought they looked "Terrific." Ugh, that was another thing- the way they said things like, "I think she's really something, really terrific, don't you?" ...NO. She could barely concentrate on the movie. All of these things irritated and distracted her so much, like a cat being pet in the opposite direction of its fur.

She was well aware that her desire to do hard drugs was... unhealthy, to say the least.She'd always had a self-destructive streak within her. The more she ignored it, the more she pushed it down, the louder and stronger that call became. Cue the cigarettes, cue that time she abandoned her friends at the bar in Scotland to run off with a charming Englishman into the night, cue the falling in love with men who never appreciated her.Well, it kept life interesting, and always made for a good story. And occasionally, inspiration for a decent work of art.

Is there a rehab for pre-drug addicts? she wondered, only half-sarcastically. It's called Therapy! a little voice said to her. Ugh. No thanks. She was tired of discussing everything, at length.... to a complete stranger who was paid to listen, no less. They never had anything productive to say, anyway. They just sat there, wordlessly, while you were supposed to spill your guts. Then, when you had said your piece, they would just say, "Hm. Same time next week?" She couldn't think of anything more tiresome.

4 more months, she thought. Well, maybe 5.