Summary: Alex's sarcastic and bitter inner-commentary greatly differs from what she says aloud. Her true emotions differ greatly from the ones she expresses. Her perception of events differs greatly from reality. And all of this really sucks for the poor guy who likes her.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the companies, brands, bands, songs, products, etc. mentioned. I do not make any money from this. I'm dirt poor, so suing me will get you nowhere. I do not condone illegal drug use or the underage consumption of tobacco or alcohol. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is merely paranoia on your part.


Chapter 02

In Which Alex's Pot Dealer Plays Cupid

There were benefits to working at the Dollar Tree.

Namely, my dealer usually worked the same shift as me.

Actually, that was the only real benefit.

Said dealer was currently blathering on about quantum physics and Schrödinger's cat and how do we really know if the government exists or whether it's all in our mind? What if I don't exist and I'm just something his mind made up and what's to say he didn't make up this entire universe in his mind and wouldn't that make him a god? And what if there were other people with their own entire universe that they were a god of and maybe every individual on earth was-

"-a god of their own reality. You're a god of your own reality, Alex. You're a god of your own thoughts. Total control. Mind over matter. It's all up here," RJ taps a finger against his temple, "mind over fucking matter."

I nodded mutely, still way too fucking sober for his bullshit. And yet-

"I totally get you, man." I passed the bag of weed I'd been examining- inhaling the heavenly scent, admiring the stickiness, drooling over the size of the nuggets- back to him.

He said it's white widow.

I know that's complete bullshit.

But they're still significantly dank headies and I'm too antisocial and awkward to find a new dealer in this fairly small college town. As long as he doesn't try to foist off any mid-grade bullshit on me, I'm willing to let these transgressions pass.

I'm magnanimous like that.

"Yo, Alex, you're, like, a girl right?" RJ asked me, measuring out an eighth on the scale.

I'd say that's a fair assessment.

"Uh, y-yes."

"You don't prefer pussy do you?"

I'm not particularly partial to it, no.

"Not r-really," I responded, surreptitiously bending forward to check the number on the scale. 3.5, as it should be.

"This good?" He asked. I grunted in affirmation, handing him a plastic bag.

"So prepared," RJ bobbed his head approvingly, "This is why you're a good kid, Alex. A good kid. You're going places."

Seeing as how his evaluation of my character was based solely upon the fact that I bring my own baggie to our deals, I can't say I trusted his opinion.

"T-thanks dude," I stated awkwardly.

RJ started to hand me my shit. But as I reached out to take it, he pulled his hand back slightly, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. My own hand stilled in kind.

"You like dick, yeah?" He inquired intently.

I would like to think I do, yes; however, never having experienced a dick first hand, excusing your ugly face- dick head- I'm not entirely positive.

"Y-yeah."

RJ stared at me for a moment longer.

"That's alright," He finally said, handing over the bud, grinning widely and nodding his head, "that's alright."

My lips curled up slightly, amused. Then again, I was starting to get a buzz from sampling the product earlier.

"I know the perfect person for you," RJ winked at me, head still bobbing, "you guys would be like ying and yang, milk and cereal, a perfectly balanced breakfast."

I could so go for a bowl of fruity pebbles right now.

I sighed, curled lips deflating. If, as this conversation indicated, 'male' was the only qualification needed for consideration as my perfect match by RJ, then I was dubious as to the accuracy of his evaluation of this potential suitor.

"Wwwelllll," I looked around the room uncomfortably, hoping the conversation was over now that I had what I wanted (read: my pot) "I gotta go."

I rose slowly from the couch, tossing forty dollars over to RJ.

My old dealer back home hated when I threw money at him. He found it disrespectful and harassed me about my poor etiquette. RJ, on the other hand, was chill. He knew when to feel affronted and when to just let things slide.

"Already?" He asked, acting disappointed. But this wasn't pineapple fucking express, he was as happy to have me leave as I was to get the fuck out.

However, there truly is some unspoken rule that both the dealer and dealee must briefly act reluctant to end their association with one another.

The social interactions of humans are fucking strange.