Translate

September 27, 2015

Finding the Dragon

I have slowly been organizing the photos and mementos that were stored at my mom's house.  Among the piles was this little guy:

It's an old karaoke slip.  Andy and I loved doing karaoke.  

Notice how it's all burnt up?  That's from smoking heroin.  It's called "chasing the dragon".  We were under the impression that it was less dangerous or addictive when smoked.  Growing up during the Nancy Reagan "Just say no!" era was the drug education equivalency of teaching abstinence only sex education to teenagers. 

See that little shiny nugget?


That's black tar heroin that got stuck on the slip.  Either that or the residue- I wasn't interested in getting close enough to find out.  

There was a period of experimentation before addiction when things were still fun.  A lot of kids smoked heroin with us, then stopped and went on to become lawyers and social workers.  Most of them liked it way more than I did.  I don't know why Andy and I couldn't put it down like they could- addiction is just weird like that.  Sometimes I wonder if he was still alive, would he be sober now too?

This is on the back of the slip.  Andy drew it:

   
 It says, "You are my sunshine."

Pipe Dreams


When I was a baby, my dreams were simple:  be cute, eat food, and get my BM taken care of. 

I was such a little stinker.
 Then I read some platitude about reaching for the stars, so in my early teens, I decided that I wanted to be an actress when I grew up.

Auditioning for the part of the constipated girl.

Then I went off to college, and my life revolved around boys, classes, and sucking at John Barleycorn's sweet teat.

Me with my beloved.


Then life got simple again.  All I wanted was food, some delicious heroin, and the occasional baby laxative in my cocaine so that I could have a BM.
They call it "Heroin Chic".  More like "Heroin Shit".


Then at thirty-five, I finally grew up, got practical, and decided that the most logical career path was "famous writer".  

Me hard at work writing poop jokes. 
My neighbors blast pirated Christian music at all hours.  In order to communicate, they have to yell over it.  I've complained too many times, so now I just relocated my office.  

This is me sitting in my (dry) bathtub.  When I'm no longer able to "rock with the flock", I grab a pillow, and banish myself to my porcelain think tank and close the curtain.  It's so quiet and dark in there that I can focus for hours.  

That's the purple bathrobe I wore the night before detox.  I wear it when I need to believe that my dreams aren't stupid and impossible.