My childhood was built on a foundation of Ritalin; my days a hazy blur of small white tablets cheerfully smothered in a yogurt glaze. I thought nothing of it … the discourse of A.D.D. was my religion, and the pills were my sacrament, or more accurately, my crutch—a temporary bandage over an inescapable wound.
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Quick camping getaways are as close as the Angeles Crest Highway.
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The pain is searing. Sure you’ve had a great meal, each course more succulent than the last, but the price tag is beyond comprehension. You cannot help but wonder how on God’s green earth you wound up paying more than $100 for a simple dinner for two.
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