Trouble in River City

I am such a pansy.

Really, I am. I've never smoked weed. I've never blacked out from drinking too much. I've never worn shirts cut too low to be decent. I am, overall, a master of self-control. I like my life clean, simple and healthy. I am too sane for my own good.

I've always wanted to do what was right. In elementary school the teachers instilled a holy fear of drugs into me, and I vowed to "just say no" when the moment came. They assured me the moment would come. I pictured myself in a parking lot surrounded by kids with long hair. One greasy hoodlum would hold a joint in my face and antagonize me, but I would walk away with my nose in the air. Alas, that moment never came. In small-town Iowa, no one ever offered me drugs. Sure, people took them. But my friends didn't, and no one would have been stupid enough to offer me drugs anyway. They knew I was too straight.

I went to college in clean-thinking, God-fearing Pella, Iowa. No one offered me drugs there, either. I knew people who did them, even saw them doing them, but no one solicited my participation. I would have said no, but it's still nice to be asked.

Spring is near. My yearly case of spring-fever is starting early, and I want to rebel. Along with most people, I sometimes want to do something out of character. I want to dance on tabletops. I want to get a tattoo. I don't want to do drugs--my holy fear of them is still intact. But I want to do something. I smoked a cigarette for the first time a couple days ago. Well, not really smoked--I didn't inhale. I'm still a clean and healthy pansy at heart.