Piss in a Cup

“Don’t fuck up your life and you won’t have to pee in a cup with the door open,” K had told me one day.

She was deep in the program by then, a veteran of the clinic, and she was protective of me.

When you’re at a rehab clinic, the subject of UA’s is pretty damn common.

André the Giant used to survey the crowd at the cafeteria and yell, “BINGO!” when he found the parties he needed to get a UA done on that particular day.

D was there the very first time I had to give one. We were at the clinic for my intake, we were in the furthest stall of the women’s restroom, the one with a sink in it.

“Run the water!” she said, “aim the cup like this!” she gestured.

I was shaky and hungover. I was convinced my liver was rotting in real time and that I was jaundiced because my skin smelled strange to me.

Sure enough, the running water in the sink helped as had the last 72 hours of watching my life fall apart in real time. I peed ceremoniously into my first UA cup with flying colors (ha).

In the halfway house, I’m expected to pee into a cup at least thrice a week. I have a shy bladder sometimes, though.

I’ve learned to be less like a camel and more like a whale, guzzling water and massaging my inner-thighs. Leaning over my abdomen to produce a bit more. I’m convinced I need to buy some juice of some kind, but always forget.