Mom, I swear I have no intentions of cooking or consuming crystal meth.

Now, people have reacted poorly when I've brought this up before, but, I stand that .05% of me kinda wants to try crystal meth once, just to see what all the fuss is all about. I don't want to do the physical shooting-up part...or deal with that whole addiction/withdrawal/hurt everyone you love/destroy your entire life jazz. I just want to know what it feels like. Once! Just to know. And then be done with it. If I could go to the hospital, have a doctor shoot-up for me and then take a "totes-magically-not-addicted-yay!" pill, that would be ideal. And only .05% of me feels this way. 99.95% of me thinks I'm full of shit. But you can't tell me that when you're watching Intervention, a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, insignificantly small part of you isn't thinking, "Well, yes Kristie is bare-ass naked running around her shed/apartment throwing ramen noodles at her dyked-out sister screaming about the devil, but what feels that good that got you here in the first place?"

Intervention isn't alone in making me meth-curious, however. If I turn into a meth-faced, hillbilly, cousin-lovin', mountain-dwelling, straight-up drug addict, I place the blame squarely on our government and their incessant warnings. Here me out.

I've been sick for the past week with either really bad allergies or just my usual chronic tonsil/sinus Tiny Tim-like illness. Normally I'd be all, "meh, just let nature run it's course," and let myself dangle on the fringes of death, but I have plans to go to New York this weekend that I really don't want to back-out of. Thus, I've decided to be "responsible" and try this "resting" thing and take "medicine" that one gets at "a" "pharmacy."

For the record, cold medicines and I are not friends. We're not even frienemies. I hate them and they hate me. One of my personal mottos is "I don't fuck with the Quils." You see, during freshman welcome week in college, we got a bag of freebies which contained samples of NyQuil gelcaps. So, when I (of course) got sick within the first two days of moving in, I downed a bunch of free NyQuil and took a nap. What transpired after that can only be described as the worst NyQuil trip in history. I have seriously never felt that creepy in my entire life. I woke up from my nap, heart racing, sweating like a fat kid at soccer camp, completely freaking the fuck out. I had put this disgusting hippie celestial-themed tapestry on the bottom of the bunk bed above me so I didn't have to stare at springs all night, and I remember being like "holy shit, the stars man! The stars are moving! What in the fuck?! The staaaarrssss!"

Then I shot up, turned to my two roommates sitting at their respective desks and incoherently shouted, "I'M NOT GOING TO DO MY HOMEWORK! I WAS GOING TO DO IT. BUT I THINK I SHOULD GO BACK TO BED! I'M NOT DOING MY HOMEWORK! SO I'M GOING TO GO BACK TO BED NOW!!!! GOOD BYE! HOMEWORK. NOT DOING IT."

They just nodded all wide-eyed like, "Ok psycho, go back to bed. We just met you, we don't really don't care if you do your homework or not."

Ugh. Ever since then, I don't fuck with the Quils. Or any cold medicine for that matter. But, I really want to go to New York this weekend. So yesterday after work, I went to CVS to pick up some über maximum strength, show no mercy, definitely knock me out, border-line rohypnol level Sudafed.

And guess what I learned from my trip to CVS? You can totally make meth with Sudafed! Who knew?? I thought that's what the Quils were for, but apparently Sudafed will fuck you up just as good! I had to ask for it at the front register and felt completely shady about it. The cashier also kept bringing back the wrong kind and I had to keep being like, "no I want the maximum strength. No, not the extra strength, maximum strength. And that val-pak of D batteries. And this draino. And cat-litter...thnx."

It's just an entirely skeezy situation. You have to give them your license, which they scan and then you have to sign this scary electronic letter that's like, "I totes swear that I have a stuffy nose and won't cook meth with this." And of course I accidentally checked the "I do not agree" box by accident. You would think that the first box under the letter would be "I agree" because, you know, give me the benefit of the doubt, but no, "I do not agree" is the first box. So then I had to awkwardly be like, "oh my god I'm so sorry! I meant to click I agree!" and then crack a meth joke. Which apparently they don't like when you do...

But all of these scary government warnings and various hoops to jump through have me wondering—how the hell do you even cook meth in the first place? I mean, I got straight A's in high school Chemistry and am for all intensive purposes an intelligent person, but I don't think I would be able to figure out how to concoct a batch of crystal meth. According to various Datelines and 20/20s I've seen, there seems to be a lot of beakers and measuring and...science involved. How do these hillbillies manage to do it? It's almost impressive. And then I become irritated that a bunch of cousin-fuckin' rednecks are smart enough to figure it out, but I'm not. It's like a dare. So then suddenly I'm back at my apartment with newly purchased maximum strength Sudafed googling "how to cook crystal meth," and "meth ingredients."

Had the government not made it seem like such an impossible feat, maybe I wouldn't be so curious! And all of those hoops and warnings only make the drug seem all the more intriguing! It's basic psychology: tell someone that they can't have something and naturally they'll suddenly want it more. And when there's an A&E show glorifying it, they'll want it even more!

But again, this is only .05% of me talking.