Crank (Crank 1)

the last few days in a

total haze. My system

had finally purged itself

of “go fast.” It was time

to shut down. I laid down

and surrendered myself

to the comfort of dreams.

Resolutions

I awoke the next morning, semirefreshed.

As I got myself ready for school,

I made the following resolutions:

• One week to the end of the quarter, grades slipping into

gutter, I would ask for some extra credit work.

• I would help out more around the house, show my parents

I was grateful for the many things they’d given me.

• I would write to my Grandma once a week, even if she

might not be sure who the letters were from.

• I would reconnect with old friends. And my dad.

• I would finish up the many projects I’d started while under

the influence—a macramé wall hanging, a portrait of John

Lennon, a song I’d written about my walk with the monster.

• I would never shoot up again. I would smoke less, toot

less, keep my bad habits manageable. (Notice I didn’t say

quit them.) I would also avoid sipping other people’s blood.

• I would go to Planned Parenthood and get on the pill. Making

love with Chase was awesome, and we didn’t need a baby

spoiling that.

The problem with resolutions

is they’re only as solid as the

person making them.