"It's dark," said Meaghen.
"Why are we sitting in the middle of the town square?" Mary questioned the night.
"Cross-legged, no less?" Meaghen added.
This was just one of the many questions Mary and Meaghen had found themselves asking over the past few weeks, such as,
"Why are we laughing at everything?"
"Why can't we move?"
"Why don't we leave the apartment before 2:30pm?"
"Why am I dizzy?"
"Why am I single?"
"Why do we need ten hours of sleep per night?"
"Why does your nose look so weird?"
The soul-searching had begun after a Sunday spent at the market in Esperaza, where the two girls had gone to Mass, wandered through the farmer's market, bought a couple cookies, were force-fed a shot glass of tea (or water-infused honey), and watched the world pass by while sipping cafe au lait at their local cafe.
It seemed innocent at the time.
And then they woke up. On Tuesday morning.
"What day is it?" queried Mary.
"Is it actually 3pm," Meaghen moaned, "or is my clock wrong?"
"It's morning in Canada...somewhere," Mary justified.
"Lets go for tea."
They walked to the Bio Bakery, where they had already built a reputation for holding inappropriate conversations, eating entire loaves of bread, sneaking extra water for their tea, and shamelessly making fun of the staff, who nevertheless gave them free cookies.
Their waitress was a slight girl of about sixteen or twenty-two, who laughed after everything she said and spent three minutes putting the lid on the tea pot (or as the French would say, the the pot).
"She's totally high," Mary said.
"NO," Meaghen said.
The girl put the lid on the pot.
"She IS," insisted Mary.
"Sh!" shushed Meaghen, motioning that the girl was still standing in front of them.
"Standing in front of me, you mean," corrected Mary.
"Oh, right," acquiesced Meaghen. "I forgot your phobia about sitting with your back to the door."
Mary sipped her tea.
Meaghen sipped her tea.
Mary nibbled a cookie.
Meaghen scarfed a cookie.
Mary started to knead a piece of bread into mush.
Meaghen looked at her in disgust.
And then, simultaneously, the mental pieces fell into place. "The grey stuff," as P.G. Wodehouse might have said, "began to work." The light bulb turned on.
"We're addicted to Crack Rock."
Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's true. Remember that shot glass of tea, that you forgot about because it seemed so innocent at the time? We're pretty sure it had the Crack Rock in it. And that's why two chocolate bars disappeared from our apartment in a matter of days. And why we run into the bathroom when people knock on our door. And why we watched Due Date three times. In a row. And why Mary hasn't posted on her blog in weeks. And why I'm guest posting now. And why this guest post is so strange.
It's the Crack Rock.