I get laughing gas when I go to the tattoo remover to help with the pain. During the 10 minutes or so that I am allowed to indulge I have had the following deep thoughts:
"I think the age of a soul is measured by how much we're trying to hide escaping our pain. Younger souls make a visible fool of themselves while maintaining an attractive outward appearance. Middle age souls act as a victim, thus justifying the messiness that peeks through the neat and tidy appearance they're trying to uphold. Older souls don't care how they look to the outside world. They are their pain, and their attempt to escape it are what the world sees. So, that homeless drunk you avoid making eye contact with might be the oldest soul on the planet..."
"... Don't inhale too enthusiastically. Dr. A will think you're trying to get more than your fair share of gas and he'll end up doing a shoddy job because he's rushing to save gas."
"Brenda, he just wants you to be comfortable. He doesn't think you're trying to steal nitrous oxide from him."
I tensed and flinched, physically demonstrating that I had felt pain when he zapped a tender spot, to justify that I did, in fact, need as much N2O as I was sucking in.
"He'll think you're a drug addict if you inhale too deeply."
"I don't think you get more gas the deeper you inhale."
"Yeah, but breathe deep and long just in case you do..."
When it's over I realize I forgot to enjoy it. I was too busy thinking about how smart I am. And that's the story of how I am on drugs, my friends.
Good. Grief.