The worst curse of them all

The first impression was that it wasn’t too bad. To be sure, it would be a massive inconvenience with a distinct possibility of going horribly wrong at any point, but compared to the alternatives it seemed like getting off lightly. In the vast range of curses – going from eternal life immolated by infernal flames, to impossible ordeals including rocks and hills, to being condemned to watch the entirety of Friends one more time – this one did not stand out as worthy of nightmares. It rather seemed like a recipe from a slightly too advanced cookbook – it would be an effort, but it could be done.

The curse was thus: one morning, you would wake up to the sight of a positively massive amount of drugs that had to be gotten rid of somehow. Not in an immediate sense of the cops chasing you right there and then, but definitely in the sense of something beginning right now. A marathon rather than a sprint.

At first, solutions would spring to mind, one after another. Soon, though, they would all find themselves lacking in the face of the sheer amount of drugs. Can’t give them away fast enough (and it would draw attention); can’t dump them in the river (without running out of river); can’t use them for anything constructive (and taking them would only be counterproductive to the whole endeavor). Moreover, they take up a substantial amount of living space, so there is no living around them either (especially not when faced with the possibility of an imminent parental visit). Solutions would abound, only to be hampered by sheer overwhelming quantity.

Given time, the whole situation would become dominated by an ever-present medium-intensity anxiety. Every move would have to take into account how to get rid of this stuff, even if only as temporary stopgap measures. There are no short-term solutions, and the prospects of long-term courses of action are slim at best. Everything becomes middle-term, a mix of ad-hoc habits and a hope of these habits becoming routine. Even the biggest of mountains can be moved if chipped away at for long enough, and this particular mountain would only become easier to hide as it shrank. It was all a matter of enduring the uncertainties of middle-term pragmatic hopefulness. One batch at a time.

The curse, of course, consisted just of this very pragmatic hope. The task was not impossible, nor was it demanding once the learning curve got going. But at no point before absolute completion could it be considered an easy going; every step of the way is high-risk, where even the tiniest of mistakes could have dire consequences. Never a moment to relax or settle into just another day in the process; always potentially something.

To be sure, it was one of the worst curses out there, made worse by the difficulty of conveying just how terrible it could become –

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