Blame it on the Meds, Part Deux

Whooo.... Whoaaahhh.... A manic three days of spur-of-the-moment, middle-of-the-week camping, painting my living room and dining room, and scrubbing the floors for hours with a tiny bowl of cleanser and a small sponge...

I went down in a blaze of glory on Saturday afternoon when my New and Improved Dope Dealer hit me with a special shot outta his blow gun - a poisonous dart antidote to my lunatic ravings. Stars and Moon circling my head. Blackness.

Note to self: NEVER NEVER take provigil again. He called it Adverse Reaction. I call it: If I wanted to feel like that I woulda stayed up a week smoking cocaine and drinking GHB!!

House of Sad

We are looking for a new roommate these days... after the untimely departure of Ex Factor Flake-a-Zoid.

Anyway, I pulled up one of our old roommate ads of yore and thought we'd just use it.

But in the interest of veracity, we had to make some minor changes to the advertisement.

I'm still smarting over the removal of "gregarious" from the description of ourselves.

I think my blog's not funny anymore...

Blame it on the Meds

On Wednesday my therapist told me that I HAD to get out of my house. Go for a ride or something - ANYTHING, just get out. Even if it was just to walk around the block.

And my New and Improved Dope Dealer (i.e., my addictionologist who manages my crazy meds) did some fancy footwork; he doubled this, eliminated that, and added the other. I was supposed to stay home from work until Monday, when I should be "feeling better," (euphemism for Stabilized).

But yesterday, about an hour after I took the myriad potions, elixirs, capsules, and tablets- I decided that my depression was definitely gone and my throat infection was probably improving.

So, naturally, I went camping.

Yes, that's right. I packed up my sleeping bag, lounge chair, floaties, king sized tent, miscellaneous gear, several backpacks and sundry ice chests and hit the road. Never mind that I didn't really know where I was headed. Never mind I was on new medication. Never mind I was all alone (well, I had canine companionship). Never mind I was as high as a kite. Never mind It was a Thursday morning!

I ended up pitching camp at Blanco State Park. After some wierd wierd experiences involving park rangers, locksmiths, and a 250-pound woman on a Harley Trike with "Phat Broad" painted across the back, I tossed and turned feverishly all night in my family-sized tent.

I awoke once and for all at 6:00 this morning with my dog standing on my head (where he had been standing effectively all night), one nostril running, one nostril stopped solid, head pounding, mouth dry as a bone from breathing through it, and throat on fire. I laid there staring at the half moon suspended high above my tent in the early morning sky and wondering what it God's Name Had Come Over Me and how long was it going to take me to pack up all this shit and get home.

Solid Waste

Okay - this is a super-gross post. Not for the faint of heart. Stop reading now if you want to be able to look me in the eye next time you see me. Anyway, I guess I've always been on the recieving end of the "TMI!" comment (as in, Too Much Information).

But this IS a blog about new sobriety. And this IS a new sobriety reality.

Today, just now - less than five minutes ago, I had my first good, solid poop. A damn fine poop! I'm heartened. It's been a long 189 days of the recurring hot snakes.

But who's counting, right?

Have you heard the one about..

The girl who was turned down for group therapy because she was too depressed?

I'll tell you all about it as soon as I recover from the shock.

SIX MONTHS SOBER!!!

Umm, this is a miracle.

I've never had six DAYS sober since I was thirteen. Life feels so good to me today.

Yes, Your Honor

The Chief Judge of the United States Tax Court has ordered me to file a Third Amended Petition by tomorrow. Been workin' on it for a WHILE. It's not finished. Oh hell, improperly deducted business expenses times depreciated assets minus 3 water fowl and ten swine.

Can I expense the Tylenol?

Did I mention opposing counsel characterized my client as "the most obtuse person" he had ever met?

it's late.

So, naturally, I'm watching Chappelle Show and blogging.

Puppy Kindergarten

I have the #1 Cutest Puppy ever to scamper the face of this planet. His name (after long and heated debate, and not a minimal amount of fighting with his Auntie L) is Pogo. This is Pogo:



He is handsome, yeah? How about another shot of the lil poochie-poo?



I love that one because it illustrates why Pogo is an appropriate name for him - his lil hind end just hops around like that all the time as if he had a built-in Pogo Stick. It just seems to get higher than the rest of him when he is excited. It's really cute. But I digress...

Tonight was our first Puppy Kindergarten class. We are already dropouts. We left in ignominy at the end of the hour, refund in hand (or paw as it were).

You know, it took me so long to figure out how to upload those photos (and actually, I am so mortified by why we had to dropout) that I am too exhausted to go on with this blog. My friends who read this blog can just give me a call to get the scoop. :)

Angry Letter

So, my therapist gave me an assignment today. I am supposed to write my dad an angry letter that I don't necessarily intend to send. I presume she meant for this to be a solitary and private endeavour, but fuck it. I got my very own bloggy-address-thing today and I'm gonna use it.

First of all, I do in fact see how trite it is for me to write the Angry Letter With No Intent to Send. What can I say? I guess I'm gonna have to stand up and defend the damn idea. As I learned in my uber-long stay at www.talbottcampus.com - that kind of shit actually works. It does make you feel better. So here it goes....

Dear Dad,

This is supposed to be an angry letter (per my therapist), but I guess I really am not all that angry with you. I'm more angry at myself for having unrealistic expectations of you. I mean, they wouldn't be unrealistic expectations of a good father, a good man. But I can't seem to get it through my head that you don't fit that bill.

[Blog readers beware: tragically funny details of my redneck roots follow]

I am extremely worried about you spending so much time with Drug Dealer #1 and Drug Dealer #1's Ho [Dear Blog Reader: read all about Drug Dealer #1 and Drug Dealer #1's Ho in a forthcoming blog]. First of all, this tells me that you are probably losing a lot of sleep and taking your high blood pressure to task. Maybe now that I am sober you are just afraid to talk to me because you are still using.

Also, you know damn well that Drug Dealer #1's Ho is a crafty bitch around whom you should be watching your back (and your wallet). Hell, we've known her since she was 9, and she's no different than the rest of her skanky sisters. I can't believe that you would deny, with a straight face, that Drug Dealer #1 burned Drug Dealer #2's house down to the ground in two separate "electrical" fires. ShitBuckets!!!!! Drug Dealer #1 is an ELECTRICIAN! [Dear Reader: Drug Dealer #2's Ho is my father's "adopted" daughter and is the sister of Drug Dealer #1's Ho. It's all very complicated. I'd make a flow chart if I were any better at using the blog tools].

I just think you are ashamed of yourself for all the shitty and stupid things you've done this year that made you look dumb and/or hurt me and made me feel rejected and abandoned, including but not limited to

(1) trying to hook it up with Drug Dealer #1's Ho (she's LESS than half your age and you knew her when she was a little tyke for Chrissakes);

(2) giving Drug Dealer #1's Ho my telephone numbers so she could call me and try to sell me a timeshare, after you yourself have not called me or spoken with me in nearly six months (that just blows me away - you are totally thoughtless or just plain stupid or both);

(3) honking up and/or smoking a lot of crappy crank and/or ice with those losers;

(4) refusing to come to family week when I was in rehab;

(5) repeatedlly hanging up on my family therapist while I was in rehab and refusing to participate in my therapy;

(6) never calling me to see how I am since that day you hung up on my therapist back in March;

(7) sinking all your dough into that stupid greenhouse with Drug Dealer #2's Ho and having the whole enterprise fail miserably (just like I said it would);

(8) moving a junky-ass trailer onto the property and destroying the pond view;

(9) getting a cell phone and not even telling me or giving me the number;

(10) not calling me for six months and counting - even after I wrote you a letter;

I could go on...

let me count the ways you've broken my heart...

Exiled in Soberville

Rehab blues? I've got the blogging blues!! How the hell does this work really? I will need two meetings today to handle this shit!