Meth addicts suck. But Meth may kind of rock. Now, I’ve never actually tried Meth but it’s long-infiltrated the great city I live in. However, I am a certified caffeine addict (as I sit here, I’m hopped-up on the corporate-quality espresso and not the crap local coffee shops pedal to stoned hippies for forty-nine cents more). I like my jitters as much as the next person, and have been sucked into the “Just Say No” universe that has made it evident only two pits exist for those of us looking to leap from the “real world.” The first is the glowing white pit of Hollywood. The second is the black pit of hard-drugs. If you’re shoved into the deep pit of Hollywood by insecure parents that vicariously want to live their lives through you, then you have the chance to climb through sludge-filled piles of two-faced monsters, agents, really vain people from the Midwest, and maybe emerge from Hollywood’s pit with a beautiful figure and tawny skin. If you’re shoved into the pit of hard-drugs by friends that think Jackass 3D should have won last year’s Oscar, then you will have no one to challenge to the top, but you may emerge as a gruesome troll with sun-burned skin and a meth habit. Though we may herald the lucky individuals that emerge from the pit of Hollywood, it’s the other pit that may produce happier people.

As evidenced by this very magazine, I enjoy sitting in my underwear and watching hours of overgrown baby’s daddy’s throw a ball through a hoop, to the end-zone, or over a home plate. But I can’t do this for hours-on-end without feeling somewhat guilty about how little I’ve accomplished. Three-fifths of me celebrates the fact that I’m slamming an afternoon beer in the same coffee-stained white t-shirt and grey sweatpants I threw on just minutes after emerging from bed. But the other two-fifths of me want to bang a mallet against my skull for being so unproductive. It seems to me meth—as the addicts would say—takes away the edge. I have to assume “the edge” has to be that two-fifths of you that feel guilty for rolling in your own filth on Final Four weekend. “The edge” is that part of you that looks in the mirror and thinks it’s a good idea to shave for work. “The edge” is that part of you that believes spending $80 on a pair of Banana Republic slacks is worthwhile because it hides the milk-shake making your ass jiggle. Meth stops the madness!

So what if meth makes your mouth look like a rabid dog, face leathery, fingers yellow, and your overall body smells like warm piss.

Inside you must feel like every gutter punk’s Michael Jordan.

Besides—as evidenced by all the beautiful but miserable people all living in California—outside beauty is over-rated. Look at anyone that’s high. A freaking smile slapped across their faces. Angels must be sitting on their shoulders and singing their names. And it’s not the fake “I’m being nice to you because your sister’s hot” kind of smile. It’s genuine happiness dripping from the corners of their meaty lips to the bottom of their rotting teeth. Pure bliss, baby. Pure bliss.

Yogi’s, assholes that meditate, and maybe even Buddhists (I’m too lazy to do the research) describe an intense happiness that can only be attained when people learn to shut-out everything but the present moment. Meth-heads must reach this same euphoric space without having to work as hard. And let’s be serious. Isn’t reaping all the benefits without having to work-hard really the goal in life? Why do you think people jump into the Hollywood pit in the first place? You think people on meth are worried about their 401K’s, the shitty secretary they might have to fire, or the lack of money in their kid’s college fund? They’re not even worried about their teeth falling out! They’re cleaning their home for the fifth time, grinding their teeth, or peeking out the window at fire orange tulips finally sprouting just in time for spring. And they’re happier than a pig in filth doing it.

Have you ever even run into a meth addict that complained about their current state in life? Compare that to walking in the office every day. How many hard-working and upstanding citizens do you have to hear complain about something that’s really not even worthy of a thought much less a conversation? And how much do you hate the assholes that gloat about how great their weekend was on the ski-pass or in the garden? They really deserve a punch in the face.

If Steroids make you stronger, Ritalin makes you more focused, is meth the happiness drug? I mean if you can look as terrible as Meth addicts look there has to be an upside, right? Maybe I’ve just been watching too much Breaking Bad. Alright, I really don’t want anything to do with Meth. That warm piss smell is just too much.