You Suck: A Love Story

and medical adviser to the Animals, was afraid of the dark. The fear had crept up on him, like a hash brownie, and coldcocked him with an inescapable paranoia after four years on the night crew at the Marina Safeway. Thing was, he awoke in the evening, to the pervasive grow lights in his garage apartment in the Marina, then drove four blocks under the streetlights to the brightly lit Safeway, then got off work in the morning when the sun was well off the horizon, to return to his grow-lit apartment, to sleep with a satin mask in place. He encountered darkness so infrequently that it seemed like a menacing stranger when he did.
    On Christmas night, round midnight, Drew sat among a jungle of five-foot-tall pot plants in his living room, wearing sunglasses and watching a movie on cable about the special relationship between the lady of an English manor and her chimney sweep. (Because of his work schedule, and the constant demand to stay wasted, Drew found it difficult to keep a girlfriend. Until the Animals found Blue, his sex life had been a largely solitary affair, and (sigh) apparently had become so once again.) Each time the chimney sweep’s sooty hand smacked the powdered bottom of the lady of the manor, Drew grieved a little-that dusky handprint on alabaster flank falling like a shadow on his erotic soul. There was arousal, but no joy.
    Sad and lonely wood did tent his hemp-fiber cargo pants.
    Then, as if scripted by Erecto, the Generously Endowed Pizza Delivery God of Improbable Trysts, there was a knock at Drew’s door. Rather than answer the door directly, Drew adjusted himself and ambled through the ganja forest to a small video screen in his kitchenette-a video peephole. He’d installed it in the days before his doctor had given him the prescription that made him a quasilegal medical marijuana grower (patient complains that reality harshes his mellow-prescribe 2 grams cannabis every three hours by inhalation, ingestion, or suppository).
    Sure enough, as if he had called in an order, the video screen revealed a pale but pretty blonde standing on his doorstep in a conservative blue cocktail dress and heels. She might have just come from a party or a dinner out-her hair was pinned up with tiny blue bows. She might have shown up to audition for the role of the lady of the manor.
    Drew keyed the intercom. “Hi. Are you sure you have the right house?”
    “I think so,” said the girl. “I’m looking for Drew.” She smiled into the camera. Perfect teeth.
    “Jeez,” Drew said, then realizing that he had said it allowed, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll be right there.”
    He smoothed his erection down, pushed his hair behind his ears, and in five long strides he was through the forest and at the front door. At the last second he remembered the sunglasses, pushed them up on his head, smiled broadly, and threw open the door, releasing a wide beam of ultraviolet light into the night fog.
    The pretty blonde dropped her smile, then screamed as she burst into flames and leapt out of the light.
    Drew ran out into the dark to save her.

22 – Being the Chronicles of Abby
    Normal: Pathetic Nosferatu Noobsicle
    Well, except for the murder, Christmas was like a slow drag over broken glass-I now truly know the ennui of passing eternity in total boredom-eating and hurling tofurky all day, stuck with Ronnie and Mom until like six, when Jared came over. His father has a fresh family with little crumb-snatcher stepsisters, so they like forget about him as soon as the squealing and presents start in the morning. He spent the whole day rewatching The Nightmare Before Christmas disc in his room and smoking cloves.
    His room is totally sacrosanct since he told his ’rents that he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t be masturbating to gay porn if anyone came in. (He’s so lucky sometimes-I could stand on my head and flick the bean right there at the dinner table and my mom would be all, “Honey, Christmas is family time, we should be together” and make me finish in front of everyone.) So, we like watched The Nightmare Before Christmas disc with Mom and Ronnie until they fell asleep on the couch-then Jared and I drew some really cool tribal tattoos on Ronnie’s shaved head with Magic Marker, but only like in red and black, so they look real.
    Then he was all, “We should go get some coffee-my aunt gave me a hundred-dollar Starbucks gift card for Christmas.”
    And I hate it when people brag about their