She says too that she's got a new metaphor for drug addiction.
"Injury," she says, "Not disease. That's such an ugly metaphor.
Most women addicts feel injured, not like they have an incurable disease."
Her eyes get wide, like she's seen a puppy run over in the street.

I'm quiet. I have to pee and someone is camping in the cafe's small bathroom.
Probably fixing or taking a shit. I cross my legs and keep an eye on the door.

After I really get going later on that night,
after I've chewed on that metaphor for three or four hours,
after we've stood on the street
under a huge poster of Cindy Crawford
and hugged our big goodbyes, I tell Mark:
"No. It's more like an expensive hobby.
Like growing hothouse flowers, fleshy orchids with creeping prehensile roots."

"Or maybe it's like golf: you feel so good when you finally get it in the hole."

They don't let amateurs like her with their sympathy and toned-down New York accents do the counseling at Pacific Paregoric Institute.


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