Drugs are bad

You know your life has taken an unfortunate turn when your cheek is smushed against a toilet seat and there's a floating head guiding you through an unwelcome rite of passage. 

 

A couple years ago, I was over at the boyfriends house, happily cooking dinner. A mutual friend had baked "special" cookies for all of us to enjoy that evening. I had never eaten this type of cookie before, and while I was not terribly eager to try it, my boyfriend insisted that I eat it in interest of trying new things. I picked at it while I was cooking, not enjoying the powerful herb flavor. As we were eating, boyfriend asked how I was feeling and I admitted that I only had a couple very small pieces of the cookie. Now, I understand that he just wanted me to be relaxed and have a good time, but peer pressuring me into eating the rest of the cookie was probably not in my best interest. Regardless - in the interest of trying new things - I ate the rest after dinner.

Within minutes, I was in the fetal position in the corner of the couch, with my heart feeling like it was going to beat out of my chest. I was so anxious at this point that I just started crying. Boyfriend calmed me down, assuring that it would soon pass and I would start feeling really good. He advised that I pick something to focus on and to keep my breathing steady.

The closest thing in my immediate field of vision was unfortunately, a clock. I focused on it like I was going to blow it up with my mind. Seconds seemed like minutes. Time was moving so very slow and all I could think of was that it would be a long while before I would not feel so awful anymore. The second hand slowly and painfully made its way through the numbers. Taking boyfriends advice very seriously, I continued to focus on the clock. I studied the shape of it (admittedly very plain and round, but that night it was captivating), the way the hands moved so gracefully, admiring how the numbers were perfectly spaced. This clock had utterly no flaws. It was a perfect piece of machinery that had been under appreciated this whole time.

Feeling like I had just gained a new understanding and that I could now move onto the next object of interest, I turned my head towards the TV. This was a detrimental mistake. Immediately, the movement and color of the screen completely threw off my equilibrium. I was floundering, spinning, falling into a deep hole. I tried to breathe, looking away from the TV, back to the clock. The clock was no longer my savior. Knowing that I had left it unattended, aware that I had so easily neglected its shape and beauty, its mechanical perfection, it spite me with more vertigo.

I realized at this point I was fucking baked and that it was probably only going to get worse.

I picked myself up from the couch, walking like the undead with my head to one side, hips thrust out in front of me and back slouched, I made my way towards the bathroom, intent on purging the remaining cookie of fail from my stomach. I stumbled down the hall, mumbling something like "gonthrowupbadcook". I sat down directly in front of the toilet, fully expecting to urp up my release from this hell.

Nothing happened. I was still feeling dizzy but not nauseous at all. This frustrated me. I tried leaning into the toilet, in hopes that having my face closer to the bowl would bring back bad memories of being sick to assist with the current process. Nothing. I was mad at myself now, I needed this out of my system. I attempted to force my stomach muscles to push it up, mocking the natural process. While I was pushing, I was also intently straining my tongue, as if that would assist. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my mouth and with dread, I realized that I had gotten a cramp in my tongue. I was in pain and my tongue was stuck outside my mouth. I staggered back to the living room, with my masticating appendage stuck out for the world to see. Boyfriend immediately started laughing and asked why I had my tongue out. I sat down in front of him with a serious look on my face.

"I hah a cahnuh inh mah tongueh"
"You what?"
"A cahnuh inh mah tongeuh!"
"... You have a cramp in your tongue? I didn't know that was possible."
"Ih hurhs. Googehl cahnuh in tongueh, I hingk ihs suhuckh"
"You seriously want me to Google cramp in tongue? ...It's stuck? Try to move it."
"Nuh! Ih hurhs!"
"Go sit down and try to relax some more."
"Nuh, mah tongueh hurhs! Googehl ituh!"

His laptop in front of him, he pretended to look up "cramp in tongue" as I had diligently requested of him and after a moment, looked up.

"You're going to be ok. Just try to relax, it will get better."

Resigning to no longer argue with him, as attempting to talk had compounded the pain in my mouth, I turned to look at the TV as my vertigo had lessened in intensity. I could not tell you what was on the television, I just remember it being a rerun of an old show. I believe that I was able to make it through a full episode before I decided it was time to attempt heaving up the cookie again. I half stumbled, half crawled into the bathroom in a dream state.

As I lay with my face pressed up against the toilet seat, a floating head appeared just above the toilet. It was male and had long, white hair.

I spoke to it with my mind, as we were obviously both well-versed in telepathy. I tried my hardest to form coherent thoughts.

"I want to throw up. I need this out of my stomach so I don't get any more high."
"You are not ready yet."
"I'm ready, please, I don't want to do this anymore."
"You have not yet passed."
"There's a test? I'm really sorry, I'll never smoke weed again, ever. Or eat for that matter."

It just looked at me and then restated that I was not ready yet.

"I promise, I will never ever ingest any sort of weed again. I'll even advocate against it. I'll speak about how drugs are really bad. This is awful, I would hate for anyone else in the world to have to go through this experience."

Now, you know that you've gone down the wrong path when you're pleading to an imaginary floating head that if it heals you of your plight, you will go into public speaking.

Giving up on this round, I decided I would head back out to the living room to pass more time with whatever was displaying in the glowing box in the center of the room. When I turned away from the toilet, much to my horror, I realized that I had forgotten how to walk.

I dragged myself with my arms, intermittently attempting to make feeble kicks with my legs in hopes of propelling myself down the hall. I reached the living room and lay down on the floor. I was upset that I couldn't purge the cookie from my stomach and irritated that I was somehow now involved in a crude rite of passage. I laid there for an unknown amount of time, it could have been 10 minutes, but it felt like hours. I asked boyfriend to call an ambulance because I was most certainly near death. He said that he wasn't going to, that I needed to relax. My face on the carpet, I noticed how intricately the fibers were woven to form it. Every piece of lint, every piece of dog hair was larger than life. 

Carpet was fascinating.

I had been woken from my open eyed coma by a faint queasy feeling. I knew this was my only chance. I dragged myself back to the bathroom as I had dragged myself out not too long ago, trying my hardest to hold on to the feeling but to also keep it under control until I reached the toilet. I pulled myself up onto the bowl and the face re-appeared.

"It is time."

I happily dispersed the contents of my stomach.

Feeling elated that I had triumphed but still higher than a kite, I carpet-swam my way back to the living room as I had not yet regained the ability to walk.

At some point, boyfriend carried me to bed, where I fell into a sleep of the dead. I woke early the next afternoon, still feeling out of sorts, but at least I was able to work my legs again.

I decided not to pursue public speaking.

Roadkill

There are many differences between having a motorcycle and having a car as your main source of transportation.

Namely, you're open to the elements and road conditions.

Being exposed to the cold or the rain is annoying, but can be thwarted by wearing proper water-resistant gear or bundling up in a couple layers. Being on a bike on a really hot day just means taking off a couple layers.

Road conditions are a little harder to overcome, however. Potholes, while they can be bad to the tires or suspension on your car, become detrimental to those things as well as your crotch on a motorcycle.

Getting stuck behind a stinky truck in your car is gross, but usually, rolling up the windows and turning off the air takes care
of most of the problem. Getting stuck behind a stinky truck in your motorcycle is like giving the tailpipe a blow job.

Now, all of these things I had expected to encounter whilst riding a motorcycle. I completely understood that I would no longer be enclosed in the protective kennel that is a car. I would get hot, I would get cold, I would get wet and I would sometimes be uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love riding. Feeling the wind against my body while going down a twisty road promotes a wonderful sense of joy and freedom that I had never felt before.

The one thing that I absolutely did not consider was the utter repulsiveness of roadkill.

While roadkill is awful in any case, it is especially offensive on a motorcycle.

Think about driving down the road in a car. You see a dead raccoon on the side of the road and you either think "aww." or "gross." or whatever. It's usually rolled over on its side, a little bloated, and you imagine (well I do) that it had a family or it was just trying to find some food or something and its life was abruptly ended by a Ford Bronco pummeling down the highway road.




Riding past roadkill on the bike is a little different. It's still on the side of the road, a little bloated, and as you're rolling up closer to it, you think "aww." or "gross." or whatever. When you come up on it, it's a whole different story.

You can clearly see that rigor mortis has set in. Its little limbs are stuck like a dead cartoon dog.

It's very bloated.

Blood has coagulated around its mouth, and its tongue is hanging out.

Its sharp yellow teeth are exposed.

Its eyes are bulging and filled with terror and death.





It not only stinks, it is omitting an extremely offensive odor that will fill your helmet. Once it has filled your helmet, you think "WOW, that is fucking disgusting." A moment passes, and all of a sudden, it's like the rankest fart that was ever emitted. It's thick. Not only do you smell it, it is now the horrid wet stale taste filling your mouth.

You speed past, hoping that the wind will blow the stench away. It does, but now you are left with a slight nausea, hoping that you won't paint the inside of your full face helmet with what you had for lunch.

I can't say that I regret riding the bike full time at all, but the horror that is roadkill definitely makes me wish that I had a car sometimes.

First Impressions

I have no idea at what point I became so incredibly socially awkward, but if there was a prize for it, I would be champion.

I have this horrible habit of making the worst first impressions. I suppose it might tie in with my inability to actually think before I speak – ADHD springs up in all areas of my life, HOORAY!

Generally, the only times that someone has actually liked me after first meeting me is when I have kept my mouth shut besides saying my name and “Nice to meet you”.

More often then not, however, in trying to win new persons’ affection, I end up saying something weird or offensive. Or both.

For example:

“Hey! Nice to meet you – and whoa ho ho, your friend too!”

“Um, what friend?”

“That giant zit on your neck!! Do you have to pay extra admission for that thing in the movie theatre? I bet you could ride in the carpool lane!”

This is just strange. Why would anyone comment on something like that? I have no idea why I have so much word vomit.

Another example:

“Aaah, so nice to meet you! You’re gay? I had a gay friend in high school. He was one of my best friends… But I don’t talk to him anymore. Do you have a boyfriend? Do people say stereotypical things to you all the time, like ask you if you like shoes?”

Weird and maybe a little offensive.

Other times, in trying to identify with new person, I unconsciously try to adapt to what I know of their culture or end up slightly mirroring their accent.

Not so detrimental when new person is from, say, the Southeast.

Painfully awkward if they’re from Asia.

As I’m talking, the small, sane, rational part of my brain is watching a horror film in slow motion and is trying to stop the damage:

“Noooooooo! Doooonnnn’t ssaaaayyyy aaannnyyythiiinnnng aaaabouuuut hisss smmmmaaallll hhhannnndsss!”

And by that time, this is what’s coming out of my mouth:

“They say men with small hands have small penises!”

About 1 or 2 seconds after I’ve just dropped my nuclear bomb, that small, sane, rational part of my brain catches up with me. At this point, I try to cover up my awkardness by talking in a loud, abnormal voice:

“HA HA HA HA, JUST KIDDING, YOUR ZIT ISN’T THAT BIG”

“I HAVE GAY FRIENDS. MY FRIEND BEN IS REALLY FUNNY.”

“I LOVE YOUR ACCENT. I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO VISIT ASIA.”

I am a social retard. 90% of people don’t really want to talk to me again after they’ve met me. Another 5% give me another chance, in which, I just may redeem myself.

The other 5% laugh at my misfortunes. I call these people my friends.

Wedding Day

I have a deep and expansive history of rushing into situations and following the irresistible urge to do things based purely on impulse. Looking back, it has rarely ever worked out to my benefit but apparently… I’m not a quitter.

We had decided that Vegas was a great mixture of a vacation and a wedding spot. We didn’t have much money, so we wanted to get the most bang for our buck.

We flew down with another couple and both of our fathers. This was my first time in Vegas - I was mesmerized by the lights, grand hotels, people watching and the hooker cards.

That first night, I won $600 on a slot machine, and I thought that gambling was super awesome and I could see how people could get addicted to it because you get lots of free money and people come by and pat you on the back when the lights and sounds go off, and your friends are really excited and jealous all at the same time.

The next day, I managed to lose $100 within an hour of getting up. Gambling had lost some of its luster, but my naïve thinking was that if I so easily won $600, surely I could win more…?

I ended up gambling away another $200, spent $100 on food, and another $100 on Vegas imprinted crap to bring back to friends and relatives. You would think that there must have been a cash factory in my ass I was spending it so fast.

That evening, the (damn frugal, stupid) ATM would not let me get any more cash out. I reached my daily draw limit. I was feigning like a crack addict for more gambling money. I was completely hypnotized by the lights and sounds of the pretty pretty slot machines, and I was sure that the NEXT ONE, that one with the fake Egyptian music and Cleopatra’s face plastered on it - I was going to WIN MORE!!

Fiancé reluctantly gave me $20, and told me to make it last the rest of the night.

…20 minutes later, I came plodding back to him with my head hung so low you would think someone called me fat and stole my puppy.

The next day was WEDDING DAY!!! I was so excited I could barely contain myself. Today was MY day, and dammit, it was going to be an awesome, amazing, glamorous wedding day in Vegas. We had opted for a late afternoon ceremony at a chapel downtown, kiddy corner from the county courthouse.

It was noon by the time we got up and got dressed, so we hurried downstairs to meet our Dads, who were accompanying us to the courthouse to get the marriage license.

After a 7-minute $25 cab ride, we arrived at the side of the courthouse, where the county clerks’ office was. It was a hot 104 degree day in Las Vegas and magically, the AC was not currently functioning inside. Not to worry. I still had plenty of time to get back to the hotel and take another shower.

Fiancé and I stood in line while Dads waited outside. After what was most likely an eternity spent in the death-filled heat trap, we finally arrived at the window.

The large woman with a floral print top and untrimmed eyebrows -- almost to the epicness of a unibrow – stared at the both of us with dull eyes that looked like a dead fish.

She suddenly smiled and stated that we must be getting married like she was a fucking psychic.

Nevertheless, we completed our paperwork and walked outside to meet our overheated fathers. We had to take the marriage license to the chapel prior to the ceremony, so we set off down the block.

We made it to the chapel and dropped off our license.

Feeling a little out of energy, we decided that lunch would be good.

Seeing the Stratosphere, we figured that we must be only 6-8 blocks from the strip, and that an afternoon walk in the sun would be pleasant.

12 blocks later, we were not any closer to the Stratosphere. It seemed as far away as when we started. I was dripping with sweat, imagining that this is what it must be like for people to be wondering the desert aimlessly, delirious from the heat. I figured that I must be over exaggerating, that I was being dramatic.

After 3 more blocks, I couldn’t stand it anymore. This was my wedding day, I was tired, grouchy and covered with sweat and dust after wandering the backstreets of Vegas for 45 minutes thinking that someone was going to jump out at any moment and cut me.

I convinced the rest of my party to hail down a cab after severely slowing my pace and dramatically panting “Water… Must have water…”

Upon arriving back at the hotel and eating lunch, it was time to start getting ready. My spirit had been uplifted, and I was still determined to have an awesome wedding day. I ran up to the hotel room to take a shower, while Fiancé went to our friends’ room to take a shower there, and hang out with his buddy.

Buddy’s wife had her own hair salon, and was going to do my hair for the wedding, while the two guys went to gamble a couple hotels down the strip. Right as I was getting out of the shower, hair friend called to say she was on her way down. I hurriedly put on a tank top and underwear and stuck my head out the door to wave her down.

I didn’t immediately see her as there was a maid cart in the way… So, I stepped out, and upon seeing her, I waved my hand for her to come down.

This is when the door shut behind me.

I immediately tried to turn and push on the handle as if by some super-cool handle-jiggling trick, I would be able to magically open the door without a key card. Hair friend made it to my end of the hall, and seeing me with my hair dripping wet, and standing there in my underwear, immediately started laughing. Still facing the door, I let out a big sigh and after a moment, did a face-palm with the door… A face-door…

Hair friend was nice enough to call hotel security so we could be let back into my room. It took the guard 15 minutes to get up to my room after the call, and by that time, I was curled up against the door crying and sobbing that I wasn’t going to make it to my wedding and that I was just in my underwear and my hair was wet and and and…

The guard must have thought I was doped-up delirious crack-addict, and refused to let me back into the room.

I would like to say at that point, that I sucked up my pride, told him to fuck off, went down to the front desk and demanded a new key card.

However, I didn’t want to be kicked out of the hotel without any pants on.

I called fiancé on friends cell phone – He was able to make it back to the hotel room in 20 minutes and by that time I had 10 minutes to get ready. After quickly curling my hair, putting on a sundress and flip flops, I ran downstairs to find that the limo to take us to the chapel was about to leave.

Wedding day wasn’t that tragic, and we were able to make it to the chapel.

We got a divorce a year and half later.

The end.