And a young un's dream of growin' up to ride

I never liked Prozac. I hated Adderall. Both made me into a pugnacious asshole, like my rage was just a pinprick away of blowing everything the fuck up. The fuck up being the important term there.

Marijuana is much better for me, it gives me the focus I’ve lacked my entire life. Weed applies the brakes to the tornado of depression and ADHD, the conflicting forces of being an introvert and a fucking showoff.

Pens sustained me while driving. An awesome invention, the pen—most of the impact of THC with none of the smell. Yeah, I was taking fares throughout the valley while high af. And really, cannabis was the only thing that got me through that bullshit job, hustling on streets filled with dipshits, dealing with the asshats in dispatch.

After a month or so of driving, I learned a few things. Stay out of poorer neighborhoods, they were mostly grocery store pickups, people with broken-down cars, none of the trips more than a few miles. The real money was in medical transport, driving people from distant exurbs to suburbs on the other side of the valley. It wasn’t just that the money was good but the immense miles of highway driving were a luxury, chat up my passenger or, if they weren’t talkative, pump up my tunes.

 At the end of the shift, deposit my cash then head back to Steve’s shop, get cashed out from the credit cards and medical vouchers. One night, I walked back to my apartment with over $1,200 in my pocket.

Despite the long days, it funded the first five chapters of Powerball.