When I was a kid, I could handle an entire Entemanns Devil's Food Cake with a side of Yodels, a Pint of Ice Cream, a glass of milk, a 2-liter Coke, a french bread pepperoni pizza or two, and a couple of packs of Marlboro Reds no problem -- and still look normal. Those were the same days when I could also drop a hit of acid and go out and drink and get high all night, snort blow and pound 40's, do vandalism with the boys & sometimes make out with the girls, sleep 2 hours on somebody's rooftop, and make it to work or school the next day without collapsing, and do it all again either that night or not long after... Those days were often ridiculously misspent and self-abusive, but they were good days. Those were the Sex, Drugs, Rock n Roll McDonalds days. Those were the days when every morning was a forgiving one. And a forgetting one... But those days are not these days no more... This afternoon, I popped a couple of over the counter pain killers and ate 3 candy bars and a glazed donut, and the result was as if I had chugged a half a bottle of tequila while standing on my head -- I thought I might die and I had to crawl to bed quickly and hope that the Gods of Inevitable Physical Repercussions would be merciful. They were. I survived to go on and eat a plate of chili cheese fries... and start this blog -- my first. I've done enough drugs and alcohol to place me solidly in the middle or back row of any AA meeting in any city in America. I've done enough stupid things under the influence to be dead or in a cell. But this afternoon was nearly Death by Glazed Donut. And that is my truth. I could still conceivably go out with a bang. But more likely, it will be with a whimper. With frosting. I used to get wasted. Now I get frosted. I used to wait for someone to save me. Now I know that nobody's coming. Most of my friends got clean and sober in AA. But my home is down the block with the fat middle aged ladies, the body image obsessed gays, the un-categorize-able but firmly designated crazies, and the interchangeable faces of the endless sad parade of female 20-something bulemics and anorexics. Can you feel the love? Because I can't right now. And yet, it appears that I have to go back to OA and embrace "my people" and a fuckin' Higher Power if I'm to be saved from my own personal speedball of choice: partially hydrogenized vegetable oil infused with high fructose corn syrup on a double dipped chocolate flavored sesame seed bun. I used to be a bike messenger. I could ride 14 hours a day. I used to be a guy who once earned 300 grand in a year with the promise of more. I used to be a success story. Now I'm 300 pounds and can't walk around the block. Would I rather be Iggy Pop? Not really. I'd rather be me. But I got a lot of work to do. Someday will not be like this day. But for now, call me Glazed and Confused.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Not with a Bang, but with a frosted Whimper...
When I was a kid, I could handle an entire Entemanns Devil's Food Cake with a side of Yodels, a Pint of Ice Cream, a glass of milk, a 2-liter Coke, a french bread pepperoni pizza or two, and a couple of packs of Marlboro Reds no problem -- and still look normal. Those were the same days when I could also drop a hit of acid and go out and drink and get high all night, snort blow and pound 40's, do vandalism with the boys & sometimes make out with the girls, sleep 2 hours on somebody's rooftop, and make it to work or school the next day without collapsing, and do it all again either that night or not long after... Those days were often ridiculously misspent and self-abusive, but they were good days. Those were the Sex, Drugs, Rock n Roll McDonalds days. Those were the days when every morning was a forgiving one. And a forgetting one... But those days are not these days no more... This afternoon, I popped a couple of over the counter pain killers and ate 3 candy bars and a glazed donut, and the result was as if I had chugged a half a bottle of tequila while standing on my head -- I thought I might die and I had to crawl to bed quickly and hope that the Gods of Inevitable Physical Repercussions would be merciful. They were. I survived to go on and eat a plate of chili cheese fries... and start this blog -- my first. I've done enough drugs and alcohol to place me solidly in the middle or back row of any AA meeting in any city in America. I've done enough stupid things under the influence to be dead or in a cell. But this afternoon was nearly Death by Glazed Donut. And that is my truth. I could still conceivably go out with a bang. But more likely, it will be with a whimper. With frosting. I used to get wasted. Now I get frosted. I used to wait for someone to save me. Now I know that nobody's coming. Most of my friends got clean and sober in AA. But my home is down the block with the fat middle aged ladies, the body image obsessed gays, the un-categorize-able but firmly designated crazies, and the interchangeable faces of the endless sad parade of female 20-something bulemics and anorexics. Can you feel the love? Because I can't right now. And yet, it appears that I have to go back to OA and embrace "my people" and a fuckin' Higher Power if I'm to be saved from my own personal speedball of choice: partially hydrogenized vegetable oil infused with high fructose corn syrup on a double dipped chocolate flavored sesame seed bun. I used to be a bike messenger. I could ride 14 hours a day. I used to be a guy who once earned 300 grand in a year with the promise of more. I used to be a success story. Now I'm 300 pounds and can't walk around the block. Would I rather be Iggy Pop? Not really. I'd rather be me. But I got a lot of work to do. Someday will not be like this day. But for now, call me Glazed and Confused.
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