Oh Boy! Myspace is fun!

Find me on MySpace and be my friend!

Stalking on MySpace

I joined MySpace this week. Within 24 hours of joining and publishing my profile, a guy who used to stalk me when we were in law school together found me.

I mean REALLY this guy DOES NOT give up. I've consistently blown him off for TEN YEARS. He has been trying to implicate himself in my life for TEN YEARS. It has not yet worked.

He has not yet caught a clue.

I am truly dumbfounded by this man's tenacity.

Mood Altering

I am an addict through and through. An addict absolutely cannot stand to feel emotional pain. I’m in pain today. So, let’s examine my thoughts, shall we?

Well, I definitely thought about having a drink. In fact, I’m having a hard time NOT thinking about having a drink right now. Each time my roomie goes into the kitchen and opens the specially-designated-for-alcohol fridge (not to be confused with the regular fridge, where we just keep our food), I listen for the “Pfhshhht” of her beer bottle opening. Then I think about it some more.

But I haven’t had a drink.

I thought about pills, for sure. My head says, “Man, if there was ever a time in your life when you deserved a Valium, it is RIGHT NOW.”

But I don’t listen to me. And I don’t have any Valium anyway.

But get this: I thought about sticking my finger down my throat to make myself vomit. Just to break through the pain somehow.

What IS THAT?? Who would think to do something like that???

I did it once, you know. When I was in rehab and I was really hurting. I was wild-eyed with pain, desperation, and fear. And it was all that I could think of to do. It was like an instinct. A sort of last resort. And it worked. For a minute. But then it made me really scared about what I was getting myself into. I haven’t done it again. And I hadn’t thought about it either.

Until tonight.

What is so wrong with me that my instinct drives me to try to gag myself in response to emotional pain? Why can’t I just cry like everyone else?

I guess if I were like everybody else, I’d be able to take a Valium right now without opening Pandora’s Box.

Or, maybe, if I were like everybody else, it wouldn’t occur to me to take a Valium at all.

What do I know about being like everybody else?

Diddly.

Grievous Bodily Harm

Remember the old days when we all used to drink a bunch of GHB until we passed out in mid-sentence and pissed ourselves?

Oh, wait, that was just me. None (very few, rather) of you knew me in those days. Ahh, yes, the salad days (in the, Shakespearean sense mind you).

Back then we called it “scoops,” because it came in a powder form, straight from the GNC Health Food store, and then later from the pharmacy. You just mixed yourself a scoop up in a glass of water and voila, Instant Heaven.

That is, until you kept throwing back the caps, taking more and more, because you couldn’t stop yourself and because, by that point, you didn’t know any better anyway, and you ended up overdosing, passing out, losing control of your bodily functions, and nearly dying right there in front of your laughing dazed smiling friends. Yeah, the good old days, right?

We also used to call it Grievous Bodily Harm, which also illustrated our stupidity since that makes the acronym GBH, instead of GHB. Whatever. We were FLY-ING! We were D-U-M-B!

But then the FDA and Congress got all involved and ruined our reindeer games. Now we had to rely on our friends and chemists working out of their homes to produce it. :(

But what's my point?

It's baaaaa-ack!



And it's respectable now! Because the drug manufacturer says so I LOVE the disclaimer, by the way, which identifies death as a potential "adverse event" and cautions of "neuropsychiatric events" even if taken as recommended). It is "no more harmful that table salt" according to Dr. Gleason, who prescribed it to many patients for everthing from insomnia to depression!

Wow, I was a little depressed last year. I sure wish Dr. Gleason had been my doctor. NOT.

Pogo's First Rib!!

Alzheimer's is a Drag

(Much time has passed since my last blog. Things in E. TX. ceased to be funny when I found out Dad has early-onset Alzheimer's. He is living in Purgatory (a friend's house in South Texas) while I find a place for us to move into together so I can take care of him. In all my spare time, I'll update my blog to make some sense later.)

For now, however, allow me to share some of the drama to divert you from your urban malaise...

I've most recently been embroiled in a plot to relieve my unwitting father of his weapons and tools. I arrived unbidden in Purgatory with a moving truck and three strapping movers with the baldly-expressed intent to secrete away my father's personal arsenal, assorted ammunition, and hulking manly-man gang box, filled as it was with a variety of tools, both power-driven and manual.

Dad brought these items to Purgatory last week in an ill-advised effort to protect them, after another dramatic event involving the alleged burglary of his home in East Texas -- the more likely scenario involving my 'sister' and simple theft. These items include: One SKS Assault Rifle complete with bayonet; One AR15 Assault Rifle; One 30/30; One .357 revolver; One .22 revolver; and various other pistols and non-automatic rifles of greater and lesser calibers; Ample ammunition for the above-mentioned guns, which are all legal and registered, etc., btw; One gang box (approximately 800 pounds) bursting with omnifarious tools of all values, large and small.

Dad lives in a house with three (city) boys between the ages of 8 and 11, who have never handled a gun in their short sad lives. The house he in which he temporarily resides is frequented by the same thief who stole and disposed of, at a minimum, the following items formerlly owned by him: (1) One pick-up truck; (2) One 15' hauling trailer; (3) One .270 deer rifle with precision scope; and (4) an undisclosed amount of cash.

Thus, in my infinite wisdom as Number One Daughter, I decided it would be best that he not have these items with him in Purgatory. Hence the trip referenced above.

And, so, there I stood in all my glory (shame), doing what I knew was the right thing to do. Dad threw things. He fought. He left out on foot, refusing to return until I'd left.

I pleaded. I cried. I doubted myself. I loaded everything and left. I hated myself. Dad won't talk to me.

I hope this epic update has managed to jolt you from that insidious urban malaise, which no doubt affects us all from time to time...