no, no, i'm usually much taller...it's just the drugs

Every week I take a small, white unlabeled pill that makes the next 24 hours a bit more interesting. This pill is known as Mefloquine, a potent anti-malaria prophylactic. I’ve never really experimented with drugs but I’m guessing this one is about as good as anything you’ll find on the street, depending, of course, on the street design; if I’ve learned anything from television besides What Not to Wear, which incidentally includes every available clothing item for sale in Uganda, it’s that there’s a direct and positive correlation between the number of alleyways on a given street and the availability of crack, sex-workers, trashcan fires, stray cats, nearby hotdog stands and attractive men running around with guns. Portland’s alley-free, hotdogless NW 23^rd doesn’t have a lot to offer besides Noah’s Bagels but even those are highly addicting. I have my suspicions about the seasonal ‘angel-dust infused’ cream cheese. That Noah’s a bad seed.

If I’ve strayed from my original point, which oddly enough wasn’t a conspiracy theory against Noah or his delightful bagel spread, I unhesitatingly and enthusiastically blame the Mefloquine. In fact, the single greatest part about taking Mefloquine, better than the whole not dying from malaria ruse, is you have a perfectly acceptable or at least accepted explanation for all rash, annoying or otherwise unaccountable/inexcusable behavior. Take, for example, this especially likely scenario…Me: “Oh, sorry I’ve offended you! It’s just this crazy drug I’m on. I’m normally quite polite and courteous...honestly, your adorable baby’s adorable baby urine will be an absolute joy to hand-wash from my last remaining stain-free skirt!” Ugandan mother: “I completely forgive you! I hear that Mefloquine is one crazy drug. Here, you relax and watch the newest season of 30Rock while I scrub, iron and press your last quality garment.”

Frankly, Mefloquine is a Peace Corps volunteer’s perfect excuse for any preexisting personality quirk: crippling anxiety, impulsiveness, insolence, anger-induced incontinence, hotdog addiction…you name it. I’m thinking about making this a lifelong drug habit, if not to legitimize my personality flaws than for the shockingly vivid and outlandish dreams pertaining but not limited to: derailing trains, a surprising array of bizarre medical emergencies necessitating care that only I can provide, failing paper companies, human-sized bathroom faucets, newborns with Barack Obama’s adult face or any unlikely combination of said themes. The only real downside is the eventual and likely prospect of liver failure. Liver failure, life failure; at least I’ll have one stable thing on which to place my blame. That’s really all I’ve ever wanted in a life partner.