Drugs

I shared with you some earlier legacies of my “drug runs” in the hospital. You have gazed upon my doomed journal entries and you have witness the ruthless, gory murder of a truly unsuspecting cookbook (sorry, MB fans…really) Getting wasted on opiates at home is quite another adventure. Again, I don’t really get high per se; somehow I always keep missing the part where you wear a lamp shade and dance around wearing Mrs. O’Grady’s apron. Then again, maybe I have been brainwashsed by some 1950s liquor ad.

No, really, I know better. These are opiates we’re talking about. Getting high equals getting out. Nodding. Escape.

Okay, cool. That sounds okay-ish. I certainly have a lot of things I need to escape from. And maybe now Mom and I can really reminisce about our early days in the 70s on the streets of the East Village. I would sing and dance so she could shoot smack in an alley. Eventually an afterschool special was made. Yes, they did have Linda Blair in mind but she was too chubby, and although Cher wanted the role, they felt she was just a couple of years too old, and far too young to play my mother. The project, without a name attached, was doomed to fail. Boy, that neighborhood has changed a lot, huh?

Anyway, back to the present and me and my bottles of oblivion. I guess they work on the pain…. presumably they work better than most of the other crap I have lying around the house. And they do allow me to enjoy lots and lots of sleep.

Meanwhile, though, my fine motor skills are shot, my eyes don’t work, and the cats are pissed because I keep walking into them. And the sleep is strange; I have vivid dreams which I can never recall but which I think are probably far less interesting than that afterschool special I just made up (I have an absurd theory that if you reach a certain age in The Biz without using phraseology like “phraseology” and “attached to the project” you will soon find yourself even more non-famous that you’d ever dreamed).

Anyway, I often emerge from these dreams in the same way, in which someone is handing me a pen or a cup of tea or a hammer, for example (I told you the dreams were boring) and I, not the sleeping dreamworld person but the actual physical body in the bed, begin to paw the air (silently, thank Jesus) in an earnest attempt to retrieve the item. This is generally followed by an urgent need to get out of the bed, because there are important things to do. Unfortunately, I have no idea what these things are, which is well-balanced by the fact that I am probably not sound enough in body nor in brain to do these important things. Generally, I realize this once I’m about halfway across the room, and I turn around, and I go right back to bed.