We were bored one Saturday in September with absolutely nothing to do and decided to trip on RoboCough.
It wasn’t some grand plan or wild craving.
It was just that familiar, dangerous mix of restlessness and curiosity, the kind that makes bad ideas look tempting.
Marjorie sat cross-legged on the carpet, shaking the bottle like it was a snow globe.
“You sure?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
I shrugged, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer wisdom.
“Sure enough.”
So we took the pills, washed them down with warm tap water, and waited for the world to lose its balance.
And it did.
Slowly at first, then all at once—as if someone loosened the hinges on reality and let it swing crooked for a while.
The come-up hit like a slow-rolling wave, thick and syrupy.
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