I walked into the room where my father was snorting coke off my mother, who had a belt on her arm and was about to inject. My brother was smoking a joint, my sister was smoking crack, my grandparents were both drinking straight alcohol, and the rest were using some form of contrallowed that I haven't seen before.

"Come take a seat son, don't mind us, we're just finishing up."

I checked the seat and brushed off a few needles and sat down. The walls were a light yellow color, and there were piles of broken bottles, needles, used joints, etc. in the corners of the room.

"Aaaaaaaah, woooooh, now son, we need to talk about your problem."

"Wht prOblemm?" I slurred. I had learned to slur whenever I talked to people, lest I be arrested by the police for not using.

"We know you're faking it, son. If you're really fucked up as you say you are, show us your arms."

"Alright. What do you want to talk to me about?"

There was a man I hadn't seen before crouching in the corner. Obviously he was the psychologist performing the intervention. He put down his crack pipe and walked over to the middle of the room where he took a seat.

"Rob, we are here today to hold an intervention. All we ask is that-"

He turned his head quickly to the left and stared for a few seconds. He looked startled, but there was nothing there, just a wall. He was clearly very high.

"Sorry. Anyway, all we ask is that you stay here and listen."

My dad pulled out a rolled up piece of paper, the same on he used to snort coke. He unrolled it and began reading.

"Bobby, I remember when you were a young lad and you had your first line of coke. Everything was fine. You got molested at school every day, just like everyone else. But then when that monster taught you at school... *sniff ... you haven't been the same. When I walked in on you in the bathroom flushing your kush down the toilet I... I'm sorry. I can't finish."

My mom brought out a piece of paper and began reading as well. I only noticed halfway through that it was just a mess of disjointed words. At the end of it, my sister started crying. I guess she understood it. Then everybody else gave their speeches. I couldn't understand any of them. I guess that's what happens when you don't get taught anything at school. About an hour later, the therapist woke up and asked me if I'd begin taking drugs again.

"No. I like being clear-minded. And if I keep healthy, I'll live to be at least 80."

My dad piped up, "Well, then, we'll have to call the cops. And you'll either die in an accident or be locked up forever in those clean waterholes"