Jack Kerouac got all jacked up on it and wrote “On The Road” in one long rambling paragraph in a three-week kick ass session. The Nazis took it when they were jumping out of planes behind enemy lines in route to their next murderous rampage. Ginsburg wrote about it. John-Paul Sartre was devoted to it.
My depressed aunt has her Prozac, my worrying mom has her Valium, the pumped up guy next to me in the gym has his steroids. So, why not walk in the path of Kerouac, Sartre, Ginsburg, (the Nazis, not so much) and start my own revolution of sorts, with a pill?
Adderall: today’s creative rampaging revolutionary amphetamine.
My fingers move from the keyboard to the bottle, fingering it and tapping it. I read the label a dozen times. In my peripheral vision is the computer screen: empty, white, and waiting while I try to convince myself that diarrhea, dizziness, dry mouth and a decrease in sexually desire are all small prices to pay for a revolution in my brain.
I could write like a maniac, be thin again, not forget to pay the electric bill, remember to put gas in the car. Why, I could rule the world, or at least my household. This could be historic.
As the blank computer screen stares back at me and the palms of my hands start to sweat, the phone rings. It’s my fashionably thin best friend speaking: anxious, fast, breathless, “…ok, gotta go, love you.” and click. What comes before is the news that she’s landed a book deal: she and her Adderall. “Fuck it.” I think. I sweep the bottle up with one hand and run water from the tap with the other.
Maybe there are side effects. Maybe the very thing that helped these dynamic people throughout history achieve their notoriety was also the thing that helped bring upon their end. Oh, well, at least they ended up in Wikipedia.
Let the revolution begin!