As I blew out the candles on my 43rd birthday cake, a strange new feeling hit me. I thought it was a hot flash, but no, it wasn’t. It was simply death looking deeply into my eyes. I thought, I’m a working woman; I don’t have time for this right now! Then I had another realization, I don’t have a lot of time left for anything! So at the ripe ol’ age of 43, I, Tamara Goldman decided to try the peyote. I thought, why not, I’m not gonna be around much longer and my niece, Nicole, who goes to Wesleyan, recommended it. If she had asked 42-year-old me, I would have said no, but I’ve changed and 43-year-old me is ok with recreational drug use. Finding the peyote was no easy task. I went to the Westchester mall with The Girls, and after stopping in Nordstroms, we decided, why not go to The Galleria Mall, they might have the peyote. After a quick indulgent stop at Mangoberry non-fat FroYo, we headed to the Galleria parking lot. Someone got shot here once so I knew my chances of finding the drug were high. I approached a man in a culturally appropriated poncho and khaki capris. He was standing on the corner next to the stop sign with penis (circumcised, I hope) graffiti so I knew he was my guy.

“Excuse me sir,” I said “are you the man who sells the peyote?”

“Why, I most certainly am” he replied.

“Great, thank you!” I exclaimed, as I handed him my Amex card, and the transaction was made.

I headed back and trekked through the woods near my house to a small clearing and pitched a tent. The ground was littered with small twigs, mossy rocks and empty strawberry lemonade Svedka bottles. I had second thoughts like, do those Wesleyan Cardinals really know how to handle their drugs? But then I remembered, I’m going to die soon anyways. Plus my niece goes there so why not! I opened the bag and I touched the drug. It was warm and welcoming like my niece at a Goldman family Rosh Hashana Bash in Scarsdale.

Then I ate it.

Over the next four hours I, robbed a bank, walked the dog, killed the dog, killed the mailman, delivered the rest of his mail, punched a priest, crashed a Bar Mitzvah, got trashed at a Bat Mitzvah, threw up at both of them, applied to Wesleyan, graduated from Wesleyan with a bachelor’s degree in American Studies, and passed out in a Denny’s parking lot.

The next thing I knew, I had woken up in the back of a rickshaw on the streets of Bangkok next to a small man with a long white beard who claimed to be my husband. I accepted my fate and prepared to begin my life as Mrs. Jetaikarn.