People sneer at me now. They glare red fire, burning the ropes keeping me tethered to reality. "Dope Fiend!" "Stoner!" Shut up, all of you, shut up! I know what I am. But you should know, you judgmental bypasser, you upright family man, that you could end up like me. Your precious Thanksgiving meal is your ticket into my underworld.

I guess it must have been three years ago, Thanksgiving Day. Mom made a delicious meal, that enabler. She should have known what she was doing. We sat around the table like any normal family, me, my mom, my dad, my sister, Sparky with one of those dumbass holiday sweaters on. The food was great, duh: mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and a giant turkey. This was the pre-Turdunken era; we were Thanksgiving purists.

We ate. "Pass the turkey, mom." "Oh of course Derek, we love you so much." Whore! You were poisoning me!

About an hour after the meal, sitting around the fire playing charades, I started to feel it. My Dad was abusing Sparky, trying to somehow communicate "Hotel for Dogs" even though you can't use props, cheating jackass. Suddenly this warmth spread over my body, real subtle at first but growing stronger with each clue.

I was baked. Totally and utterly stonedÂ…and I liked it. My Dad and Sparky started to blur and distort around the edges turning them into a sort of Gumby and Pokey duo. My mom's incorrect guesses sounded more and more like Charlie Brown's teachers. My sister's cackles turned from a Cruella de Vil to a Mary Poppins reproduction.

Three years ago, Thanksgiving Day, was my first time using. All of you out there eating your Turkey dinners remember what you're actually doing. They say a little experimentation is fine, especially if it is in a loving family setting, but let me tell all of you drumstick-eating, white-meat-preferring bitches, Tryptophan is no laughing matter.

Trippin' on Tryptophan was my gateway into harder stuff. I began to like other downers like warm milk and advil. When that wasn't exciting enough for me, I started doing Coke. Coming down off of those caffeine highs, I knew this drugged out lifestyle would be the end of me, but I couldn't stop.

I just couldn't stop.

And now look at me. It's Thanksgiving Day three years after my first score, I'm alone getting high off of fermented poop fumes (it's a real thing!) looking enviously at my old Tryptofriends who are getting Tryptofried without me.  

I find no comfort in cold turkey puns.

These have been the true accounts of a real life Tryptophanatic.