Drugs make you stupid (from BAD MOVIES)

My published paperback novel BAD MOVIES is Jilly's autobiography of how she became a star.

Back at home, it was stifling hot. But I was still vibrating from all that jarring cocaine. I decided to take a long walk around the strange looking power plant domes. Amongst the loud chattering of zillions of insects that darted away to avoid getting stepped on by me, I bellowed my saloon song over and over again. I let my Jilly voice crack and wail and do its crazy thing:

"Up to the bar, order some swill.

Drink it up fast, go out and kill.

Come back to bed, tip me your hat.

Toss me your gold, we'll go to bat.

Guzzle your whiskey, we can be rough.

Till yer time's up, dance in the buff."

I sang it at least twenty times. After circling all the way around the radioactive domes, I was plumb tired. When I made it back through the door, Bod was sprawled out on the couch in the light of day with his privates all drenched with lotion. He scowled at me as if in disgust, and said, "Take a bath."

Though breathless, I mustered great fury towards him for being so horrible. He was playing with my most expensive hand lotion that was almost all gone. The pig! I screamed hysterically. I stormed out the back sliding door. I completely forgot the small fact that the balcony had left us.

"Bod!" I wailed, as I stepped out onto thin air. I plunged feet first onto the weedy slope where I continued my descent with a few sloppy somersaults, leaving the plastic part of my hair behind on a scrubby bush. I stayed on my face until Bod pulled on his swimsuit and ran out and rolled me over.

"You OK?" he asked in genuine terror.

I breathed in the dry hot dirt and gasped in great pain, "Can't move."

"You sure?" he yelled in my face then started shaking me and dragging me around. "Move! Move! Get up and walk!" Luckily, my spinal column hadn't dented, otherwise I'd have never moved ever again thanks to Bod's ignorant resuscitation technique.

"I think it's my ankles." I cringed in anguish. "I heard them snap. I think I sprained both real good. I heard them go off like two firecrackers. Oh man! And stop smashing me up and down. It hurts! Bod! You're going to break my neck! Stop!"

"No! Oh no! Oh god no!" Bod screamed, terrified, still desperately trying to shake good health back into me. "You have another scene to do in the film! We've got to get you up to the house. Ice! We've got to pack you in ice!" He dragged me all the way up the hill and into the house. He packed frozen hash brown bags around my already purple swollen ankles.

I asked, "Did you get my hair?"

He grabbed it from the table and shook it at me. "It was hanging from a goddam bush for all the neighbors to see! Do you know how much this piece of s**t cost me?"

I cried, feeling nothing but acute pain. "I want to die. Please, Bod, just shoot me in the head. I can't take the pain."

"I don't know if shooting you in the head would do very much damage."

"Screw you, Bod. Just get a knife from the kitchen and cut off my ankles. I want them as far away from me as… oooooh!"

"Be lucky you're coked up," he said, "Or this would hurt really bad."

"It hurts! It hurts!" Then I realized that the coke probably made me so stupid that I would walk out into thin air. "I want to die, I'm so embarrassed."