Max set three shots on the table and called them “quality control.” Anyone would be curious. Poker and ping pong grew boring weeks ago, and one can only spend so many hours extracting experiences from test subjects before you start to wonder about all those pretty glowing vials in the biofridge. You have to understand that if you stick three people in a tin can in the middle of nowhere they’re going to get bored. By necessity, these people must be willing to overlook pesky things like “ethics” and “human rights” in the name of science (or exorbitant paycheques). Obviously they’’ll take advantage of a high-tech research facility to run some experiments of their own.

It started simple. Two shots with a drop of “high school graduation” or “sunset picnic”, the third spiked with “calling your professor mom” or “forgetting to clear your search history.” When that got old, it became a game of deception and hidden reactions. Who swallowed “first roller coaster ride” when the others had “winning a karaoke contest”? Admittedly, that round was easy. Diaz pissed himself.

We tried stupid shit. Fear pong. Juice or dare. When things got stale, we started creating custom blends, but the feelings blurred together on their own. What was the difference between “first car” and “first kiss,” except that Max had to excuse himself when he tried one and not the other? Who knew he was such a car guy?

When the supply, and the thrill, dwindled, we brought in even-less-sanctioned-than-before “volunteers.” Started siphoning off feelings not strictly outlined in our research guidelines. The hunger for something more never left their eyes.

Max found it. It was laughter, first. The aftertaste was darker, coating our tongues with grimy, filmy, superiority. Max bet a hundred bucks we couldn’t guess which vial he’d used. When we conceded, he passed it to me, and I read it aloud: M. Webber. 2083/07/10. Diaz pissing his pants like a little bitch.

Bottling emotions gained new meaning as we distilled our feelings, wagering on whose experiences surged through our bloodstreams. We turned ourselves over to each other with our losses, sought new flavours with our wins, and drank vials of human condition like Capri-Suns. You haven’t lived until you’ve slammed a glass of “hatefuck,” “watching Diaz beat the shit out of Max,” and Red Bull.

Tonight, I delivered the boys their shots alongside my diary, locked and loaded with all my private memories. The wager: if they could guess the feeling, or even close, I’d read every juicy memory aloud while they extracted my emotion. If they couldn’t, they’d read one entry of my choosing, while I juiced them. I’m sure it sounded like a win-win. It could have been if we’d learned to bottle emotional intelligence.

They’re gone, but I have two more bottles of “realizing you’re about to die,” and several promising applicants in my inbox. Only cost a couple drops of “relishing the pleas of a dying employee.” And the cleaning bill.