There are a lot of ways to roofie a person, but one drug that gets a lot of blame (or attention) is GHB. GHB is a liquid that can be poured into other liquids and should cause anything from drowsiness and confusion to straight-up passing out. What people don't realize about GHB is that the dose is extremely variable from person to person - there's no guarantee that what you give someone will actually have an effect. Also, GHB is very salty. I didn't realize that myself, not until dad gave me some GHB, and I had to choke down this salty (and oddly oily) liquid. More and more of it, as it had no effect on me.

Luckily this isn't a horrific story that requires a terrible trigger warning - Yes, my dad gave me GHB. But I knew it and consented to it, and went off to my bedroom alone and unmolested to, quite emphatically, not sleep at all. After dad started drinking again, he branched off into other drugs as well. He was chasing something, and despite his assertion he was going to "smoke his way to heaven," I'm not sure even he knew what he was chasing. Sometimes I see my dad in myself and my own decisions, and I grasp vaguely at his end-goal, but it floats away. Me, I'm chasing self-worth and confidence; I think it would be too arrogant to assume the same for him, though in the end we're all chasing those things - some simply to a far greater extent than others. Some of us have a much larger void to fill; some will never fill it, perhaps especially the ones who try to fill it with drugs and alcohol.

One of dad's tricks was to look overseas for his substances. Codeine from Europe, Turkish poppy pods from Canada ("for dried flower-arranging purposes"), GHB from... wherever it was from. I think also Canada, but I'm not sure. As long as it didn't get confiscated by Customs, it was smooth sailing (besides that one summer there were odd clicks on the telephone line, but nothing arose from those). So, one night when I complained of insomnia, dad gleefully went to the cupboard and pulled out a large mason jar of clear liquid - relatively odorless too. He gave me his own usual standard dose, and that's when I discovered it was salty. Gross salty. We waited; nothing happened. I took more. We waited longer; nothing happened again. Finally we maxed out the amount he was willing to give me - not because he was concerned about safety, simply because he didn't want me making too big a dent in his supply. I finally went to bed but never went to sleep, so scratch GHB off the list of insomnia remedies for me.

Another time, dad told me that if you took a sleeping pill (in this case Ambien) and stayed awake on purpose, you'd have some great hallucinations. He figured they were the dreams you were supposed to have, but you'd tricked yourself into being conscious of them. I was uninterested in this but was desperate for sleep, so I took one of his Ambien and went to bed. Again, I didn't mean to stay awake, but as it turns out, my particular type of insomnia is rather resistant to drugs. As I did all sorts of other relaxation exercises, I prayed for sleep, it didn't come, so I thought, well, if I'm not going to sleep I may as well see about these hallucinations. As I contemplated my sad existence, a crack in the ceiling wiggled. Just once, like a worm shuddering, and then it stilled.

That was it. That wiggle was the hallucination. I was unable to sleep the rest of the night; too tired to get up and move, so lay there and lay there, but all I saw was that wiggle.

Conversely, there was one night I slept the best sleep I've ever experienced. Dad had gotten his hands on about a foot of San Pedro cactus and whipped up a batch of mescaline which he wanted to share with me. As before, my partaking was a combination of interest and being unable to withstand his pushiness. We prepared - showers, clean clothes, clean house, some meditation - and then split the dose in half and alternated swigs of mescaline with swigs of orange juice. The mescaline itself is gross, but it melds with the orange juice in your mouth to make this deliciously indescribable flavor. We parted ways, dad and I. I ended up sitting on the couch, felt tired, laid down, then next thing I knew I was waking up feeling refreshed, happy, energetic, pain-free, knowing that I'd had vivid and wonderful dreams the night before but not able to remember any of them. I was excited, optimistic, balanced emotionally... it was, frankly, amazing.

I'm sleeping better these days - the PTSD isn't as present, I'm learning mindfulness to handle the anxiety and panic attacks, valerian root for the chronic pain, and I'm not in contact with my father. Often in life it's the little things, but in some cases it's also the very big things - the lack of drugs, the lack of fear, the lack of strife. Sometimes I like who I am in the context of all these random things; sometimes I struggle to remind myself that without these experiences, I wouldn't be who I am today so should be grateful, at least on some level, that I had a dad who'd feed me GHB. He tried, in his own way, to help with my problems and to share his knowledge. In some small way, too, it expands outward - if you're ever out at a bar or a pub and have left your drink unattended then take a sip, and it tastes weirdly salty - put it down. I don't know how to identify all the other roofie drugs out there, but I can do GHB. In that sense, at least, I am roofie-proof, thanks to dad.

If there is one thing I, your hero, am not good at, it's seduction. I can't even pronounce the word correctly because it sounds too silly to me, so I pronounce it like seduckseeon which obviously is way more ridiculous, so at least I laugh at it. To myself. Because I have driven people away with my lunacy. But, in the way of coincidences, I'm soon to be faced with yet another seduckseeon (don't forget the vaguely French nasal "on" when you pronounce that), and this week's prompt reminded me of one of my first.

( Cut for sheer embarrassment )

It was a dark and stormy night in the foothills of the Cascades when I, your hero, was thrust into this world. Well, it was night at least, so it had to be dark. Stormy is up for debate, though February near the mountains there had to have been some little gusts or flurries. So, dark and stormy it is! I was born in the hospital of this small town because the even-smaller town in which my family lived had no birthing facilities. It turns out the even-smaller town didn't have much else to recommend it, besides being situated in a truly beautiful location. Sadly, this location is inside Cascadia, and not the state of Jefferson which has always been the home of my heart.

My father, when asked, claimed that we lived in the above small town for one reason and one reason only - he was forced to move there. Somewhat forced. There was another town he could have gone to which apparently was even worse. The force came in the form of his boss, who discovered that my father had been embezzling money and told him to get out of Jefferson or get beaten, and dad chose to get out. Take this story with a grain of salt; I always have. Dad fancies himself a criminal mastermind of sorts, when really he's just a drug addict who's not very good at not getting caught. He is, however, weirdly good at weaseling out of the consequences of his actions, but that's another story entirely.

I spent my childhood going back and forth between the northern towns and the southern valley which I love, the home of my heart. At one point we moved from the very-small town up north in with my paternal grandparents in the southern valley. Three blissful months in the sun, the heat, the orchards, and the barn, until dad packed us back up and we went even north, further away. Though, granted, this may not have been the worst choice, as once you've spent 3 days with his parents, let alone 3 months, you may understand why he was a drug addict.

Cue another round of back and forth, back and forth, north to south, south to north. Your hero here and her older brother spent vacations running up the Table Rocks, where the world began, rafting down the rivers of life, gorging on the succulent fruits of this land of milk and honey. Then we trudged back up north to the gray and the grind. One time, around the age of 9, your hero broke her strong facade and sobbed, "I want to go home," as she was packed into the car and driven north past the shadow of the Table Rocks. "We ARE going home," your hero's parents exclaimed, "We'll be there in 4 hours." Your hero tried to explain that in fact we were leaving her home, the land of milk and honey to the south, to the bewilderment of her family, who did not understand how one could have a home of the heart separate from the roof over one's head.

It was some years later that I, your hero, was able to make her way back home in the presence of her family at the age of 16. But that is also the age when one is going to leave the nest, make the way into the world, and your hero sadly had to leave many times before coming back, possibly for good, possibly not, but at least for now in the home of her heart.

( Pictures under the cut, because pictures take up a lot of room )

I had a hockey phase - watching, not playing. Something about the speed, grace, and burly men occasionally grappling each other out of nowhere (same reason I sometimes watch MMA, I'm not gonna lie), and I was hooked for a good... year? I had a basketball phase as well, though that lasted longer (the late '80s/early '90s Trail Blazers were a team of beauty). I'm into football and baseball now, football more so. Horse racing on a sporadic basis. Ever since that one time I lost a winning ticket at the track up in Portland, I've been a bit leery of the ponies, though later - much later, when I got over the fact I'd bet my last $10 and won but threw the wrong ticket in the trash - I was able to appreciate living out a Bukowski poem of my own. Mostly appreciate.

The Pox is really into horses - I already bragged about the Pox a little bit yesterday, but this is a public post, so I get to brag again. The Pox just received an Oregon Literary Fellowship to write about horses and horse-related things. It's the Pox who taught me how to bet on the ponies in the first place (or at least tried, I'm still not very good at gambling), and who reintroduced me to horses after a long hiatus (I won't tell my own sad horse story now though). When she and J.Bola were off to get their masters degrees, I could've tagged along with them, shouldered my way into a program, or at least enjoyed the delights of Fargo/Morehead (hereinafter referred to as F/orehead), but instead I stayed in Portland and occasionally pestered them for writing tips. I called it "my vicarious MFA," though really didn't do much with the knowledge.

I worked. I made extra money for the first time in my life, and I tried to enjoy it. Granted, it wasn't a lot of extra money, and granted much of it was spent on beer and restaurant food, but I was finally free(ish) from the burden of caring for my parents and out on my own for the first time, so I enjoyed it. You see, and there's no good transition here so we're not even pretending to segue; see, part of the reason I moved to Portland was to get away from the family (drug addiction and codependency issues), and I used going back to school for an art degree as an excuse. I could've done that anywhere, but Portland was the choice at the time. I had - still have- always wanted to be a better artist. I would like to make art to sell it. I would also like to be a better writer; make stories, and sell them. But I also have a lifetime of obligation behind me. Despite not speaking to my father for a few years now, I can still hear his voice in my head telling me that while I'm good at these things, I can't support a family that way, so I'll have to choose something else.

Only lately have I really internalized the bitterness in his voice was for him and his obligations, not me and mine... though since the age of 14, he was my obligation. When he talked about supporting a family, it turns out he was talking about himself and mom (which is also another story I won't tell here; in fact, have told too often before). To this day, right now, sitting here typing this - for fun, for practice, for me - I have an underlying sense of guilt that I'm not completely occupied with finding a job, that I'm a burden to my family.

So, you also see, ever since my business collapsed a few years ago, I've been determined to make my old dreams come true. The dreams that made me run away from my supposed obligations, the dreams that I dreamed all the time I was doing what was expected of me. I have ideas. I have a plan. I have things to set in motion. I am simply sitting here not doing them (I am, in fact, trying not to get anxious because a therapist friend just - and I mean that literally - messaged me this: "So I hesitate to say this because I know how your anxiety goes but a sense of foreboding and mental confusion can both be signs of impending heart attack. Are you okay other than those two things?" So, basically, I'm sitting here waiting to die, now, with my dreams definitely not fulfilled).

Years ago the Pox and I had a talk about dreams and paths through life, and I tend to forget this, but after seeing the Pox move forward and achieve yet another goal, accomplish yet another.... accomplishment (sorry for redundancy; I'm still worried I'm going to die), I'm going to remember it: The Pox follows not a path but a trajectory. I tend to follow a path. Step 1, step 2, step 3, SUCCESS. This is not realistic or helpful. There's even a helpful internet image going around lately - success is not a straight line but a squiggle. A trajectory, an arc, an orbit, an arch, a bow, a crescent, a vault, a parabola where puck meets stick no matter what happens in between. Channeling my inner Gretsky, pummeling grown men out of my way to score that goal, to finish this post and get up and take a baby aspirin and my blood pressure because oh my god I'm going to have a heart attack any second now! But from excitement, not fear. Writing this did the one thing I didn't expect it to - motivate me.

edited at 1:11 PST to add: This Facebook status is what prompted the therapist friend to message me about my impending death: "I have a deep sense of foreboding about today, presaged by my mind going completely blank and having to google "angry postman poet guy" because 'Bukowski' so completely evaded me."

Let's not name names, let's not point fingers, yes? Let's just talk it out...

That one friend who:

Is trapped in a vicious circle making the same mistakes over and over again. "I've learned my lesson this time!" then 2 weeks, 3 months, half a year later is worried about her new boyfriend, same as the old boyfriend, because he can't pay his rent (or his bail or his child support), and she doesn't want to give him money but isn't she basically obligated to?

No, you tell her, and try to distract her since calm reasoning doesn't work.

That same friend who:

Thinks nothing through but excitedly jumps into action. The one who blurts out secrets or painful truths - far more painful than they should be, because the blurting-words are the harshest words. The same truth could be said slower, with more caring, more couth. It would be the same truth, but better, because you wouldn't have to watch her eyes get wide or hear the same old/same old panicked apologies and explanations fly out of her mouth.

It's okay, you tell her, because you know she meant well.

And that exact friend, once again, who:

Goes out, again and again, sparkling and witty and brave, for just long enough to get attention. Then she eats up the attention, thrives on it, stands up straighter, eyes are sparklier, wit is faster. Attention is her candy, her sugar rush. You watch her subsummation, inevitable, drawing her away from you and completely into this new person's world, where she doesn't exist except as a mouthpiece to talk about how GREAT things are going.

You wait, glance at your clock now and then, because you know she'll reappear when the rush of the crush is gone, wending her way back to your shared world, knowing she'll cycle straight back to #1, "I've made a huge mistake, but I've learned my lesson this time!"

Somewhere in that cycle, That One Friend is a great friend, or else why would you be my her friend? Maybe someday I'll she'll finally learn those lessons, and I'll she'll be just a friend, not That One Friend.

Life goals, I guess.

Well and so, here we are... I'm a 36-year-old Jewish cat lady who currently lives with her alcoholic grandmother and bitter, codependent mother in a trailer double-wide mobile home in rural Oregon. I'm unemployed and depressed. I am working on fixing about half of those things to be better.

I've done Idol a few times before now, and was hesitant to do it this time - if showering and applying for 2 jobs a week is hard, how will I write? But writing brings me out of myself, interacting with people gives me hope. Connections, y'all.... connections are important.

Despite it being week 0, I haven't come up with a cohesive plan for Idol. Not that I've ever come up with a cohesive plan for Idol, but it seems like such a good idea, you know? I'm toying with writing memoir/short stories revolving around sadredneckville because 'they' say to write what you know.... If you've read the book Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock, that's what I'm shooting for... not in a "plagiaristic" type of way, in a "I didn't know people would like stories like this" kind of way, and then we're back to writing what you know! But there may not be a theme for anything either. It's a crap shoot.

Hello and welcome, either way. I look forward to talking with you and reading your work. Also, all concrit is welcome here - I do love and enjoy all the encouraging "this is great!" comments, but if there's something you see that you think would make my writing better, please don't hesitate to tell me! Nicely though, I'm fragile ;)

I started working when I was 13 years old - old school style, babysat over the summer from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. for $20 a day. That family ended up moving without warning; I transitioned to after school during the school year, went over to their house like usual, they were gone. Without paying me my final check no less.

That's not what this post is about, though. Not really.

We also had chores growing up, like most kids do. Dishes after dinner, cleaning our rooms, an actual chore schedule (the kitchen garbage can, for instance, got washed out once a month without fail). I was so short I had to stand on something to do the dishes; my dad would check the water temperature and, if it wasn't hot enough for sterilization, he'd let it all out and run the hot water in. Any time I protested the water was too hot for my delicate little hands, he'd grab them and plunge them into the dishwater until they acclimated. It only hurts the first minute or so. Little bright red paws are clumsy, but the dishes got done.

This is closer to what this post is about.

When I was 14, my brother moved into the college dorms. After we dropped him off, dad drove us to a furniture store where he bought a lamp. He held this lamp in his lap and cried all the way home. My brother was 16. He would drop out of college at the age of 18.

That has much more to do with this post.

Despite dropping out, my brother didn't move back in with us. He worked at a restaurant and split a studio apartment with two of his friends, who jointly owned a comic book store.

I stayed home, of course. Despite hours - days, weeks - spent daydreaming of running away, I knew I didn't know how to take care of myself. I did, though, know how to take care of my parents. I knew how to iron dad's dress pants and work shirts to perfection. I knew how to loop his tie and draw it just tight enough. I knew to use up the fresh produce as quick as possible, as dad hated the expense of food gone bad. I can see him still, holding a fistful of wilted, slimy radishes in his hand, "Do you know how much this COSTS?" and flinging it away. I knew how to make a shopping list in aisle order, so my mom could get through the grocery store as fast as possible. I knew which coupons to clip, how to double them.

At 17, with a better job at a local restaurant, I was promoted to more cooking duties and the expense of grocery shopping. I learned you can half-ass lasagna by not boiling the noodles first. Put enough watery green vegetables in there, pop the tinfoil on top, and the noodles steam on their own. I pored through cookbooks. I made meatloaf the way dad used to, with a package of onion soup mix, Saltine crackers, and ketchup on top. I scrubbed, wiped, sanitized, made it to work, made it to school, made it out for parties now and then.

Nearing 18, it was college time. My vote was no college - My jewelry teacher thought he could swing an apprenticeship with a local silversmith. I wanted this. I wanted it badly. I floated the idea of beauty school - cut hair on the side, make jewelry, become a famous artist, done and done.

Dad wasn't okay with this. He'd had one child drop out of college, negating all the status and attention he got for having a child prodigy in the first place. Dad wheedled first - promised he'd figure out how to pay for the entire thing - then threatened. If I didn't go to college ("real" college, 4-year liberal arts type), he would give me 2 weeks to pack everything I owned and find a new place to live. Anything left behind he would burn. I capitulated. After all, "real" college would at least get me out of the house*.

Over and over through this process he told me, "Art doesn't pay the bills. You can't support your family with art. You can't support yourself with art." The argument that being a hairdresser would make up for this fell on deaf ears.

Off to college I went. I worked - couldn't be a burden on my parents, had to buy textbooks, gas, insurance, beer, all that stuff. I made it through. I got jobs. I mostly lived with my parents, dad's logic being that I'd have to pay rent somewhere, why not pay it to them? I could never save quite enough to move out, though I did run off to Brooklyn for a year. Slunk back after realizing the big city wasn't for me, but I go out for awhile.

At 26 I decided to train for medical transcription; I became self-employed at 27 and have been doing it ever since. I'm supposed to be transcribing a report right now, in fact. I'm no longer self-employed** but still a transcriptionist. Since becoming an employee again, I've had to borrow around $3000 from my brother, was forced to stop paying my mom's cell phone bill, couldn't send my dad any more cash***, and am now living with my granny and my mom in a trailer manufactured housing unit, struggling to make ends meet.

Today I'm waiting to hear back from a man named Josh, the manager of a local paint store. Industrial, commercial, domestic paint. Not oil paints, not acrylics, straight house paint. I should hear by tomorrow, Friday at the latest, if he would like me to join his team and sell the shit out of some paint. I have a choice - I can continue on in medical records, buy a business casual wardrobe, maintain certifications, claw my way up a ladder, and make beaucoup bucks. Or I can work at a paint store, make enough for me to support myself (and only myself) and have access to all the free mis-tints my heart desires. There will be no stress. I will have the energy to clean out the garage and set up a silversmithing bench, an easel, move the gemstone faceting machine from my brother's apartment to here.

I will make art. It might be mediocre art; it might be sloppy, ill thought out, unsellable art, but it will be art, and I will be happy.

Also, since this post will reach a wider audience than usual, this is where I ask humbly for good thoughts, prayers, and chicken sacrifices on my behalf. I'm sure the Gods of Paint will also accept chocolate and whiskey sacrifices if you're squeamish about the chicken.****

*There is a long and possibly triggering story behind this, which I will not share now.

**There is a medium-sized story behind this, which I will not share now.

***There is a very long story behind this; in fact, because I can't figure out where to put 4 asterisks, there's two stories - one about the jewelry career and one about dad having a drug-induced psychotic break, neither of which I will share now.

****I keep telling myself I shouldn't get my hopes up, but right now it's down to me or one other guy, and I can't help but hope.

_____
This has been an entry for therealljidol; please read and enjoy all the entries, and vote for the ones you like!

The morning started off on the wrong foot, most especially as it wasn't morning, but about 9 at night. I'd been sick (thought it was mono, turned into pneumonia) and sleeping all the time, on my camping pad in the room I shared with the Pox. We'd moved out of the House of Good Names into an apartment in Bed-Stuy that went horribly wrong, so moved back into the same building as HOGN but upstairs, with Nicole and Mackenzie. We had to share a room so split it down the middle with a barrier of suitcases, discarded the queen-sized bed, and used the camping pads pilfered from Bed-Stuy. Not conducive to restful sleep, let alone properly propping myself up to keep the liquid sloshing in my lungs from sloshing up my airway.

Mackenzie was sweet; Nicole was a coke fiend. A coke fiend with a penchant for cooking (but not cleaning) and on-point personal accounting, at least as far as shared bills went. We hadn't bonded much, I guess, so N&M decided it was roommate-bonding time. We were to attend a party not far away, at the Chicken Coop. I knew a few of the guys at the Chicken Coop; I was interning at a museum, and they were art handlers with the company contracted to, well, handle our art.

Despite my protestations, I wasn't much for standing up for myself, and it would be an opportunity to hang with these cute art handlers outside of work parameters, so I gave in to Nicole's demands that I take some of Mackenzie's ADHD meds to perk myself up and handed over approximately $2 in change so Nicole could buy us beer. (Note that I also have ADHD, so the meds weren't amazing helpful, but I took them anyway.) The Pox and I were both pretty broke, so gave firm instructions to get us a 40 ouncer of Ballantine's each. Nicole came back with a half-rack of Corona and a bag of limes, informing us that we each owed her for the beer, despite her going against our express instructions. We piled into her car, she handed me a kitchen knife, and roared off down the street. I proceeded to cut the limes, handing them to the Pox who stuffed them into the Coronas and handed them out on the drive, desperately trying not to poke myself - or anybody - in the eye in the process.

When we arrived, we were first harangued by a man in a wheelchair guarding the door. "Are you 12? You're too young to party!" Etc. etc. etc. Not sure of the etiquette (was there an entrance fee? Should Nicole fight him? He's in a wheelchair, she can't fight him), we mumbled and shuffled and sipped our Coronas until he finally stood up and walked away, to our relief and surprise.

Up the stairs to a dimly lit empty loft space, dance music pumping, about 3 dirty punks flailing away. Nobody familiar. Into the next room, a repeat of the first, so up the stairs to the second floor. The door to the living quarters was locked, nobody answered our knock. Back down the stairs to the second loft space where we milled ourselves into a line of confusion, still politely sipping our Coronas, trying to act casual. Off to our right was a knot of bike messengers, clustered around someone, but we couldn't see who, so we stood there, sipping... finally a guy walked up to my left and stood in line with us, sipping his thematically appropriate 40 of whatever, then finally said, "yeah, that's him."

"Who?" I asked, as I still couldn't see past the knot of bike messengers.

"Puck. That's Puck," he replied, "The guy from the Real World? All the bike messengers are pretty pumped."

I nodded, not caring, not caring to fake looking like I cared, and sipped my Corona more.

A second passed, and this guy whipped out a little baggie and asked if I'd like to do some coke. I figured nothing could make this night worse, so nodded and slipped behind a small partition with him, snorting out of the palm of his hand, while we chatted a bit. After slipping back out, Nicole caught my eye and gestured frantically - "Were you doing coke? Is that guy holding? Get me some."

I couldn't quite resist the force of her personality so wandered around finding the guy (oddly difficult in a room with so few people, until I realized there was an open window to the roof where a few more were hanging out). He happily agreed to share his cocaine, so the rest of the party involved him taking us, singly or in clumps, behind a partition and snorting his coke. This didn't last too long, but long enough, until the party was finally obviously dispersing. By this point, Nicole and Mackenzie had run across some acquaintances, the Alabama brothers. I didn't know their names then and don't know them now, they were always referred to as the Alabama brothers. They were to come home with us, and after a furious whispered discussion with Coke Guy, he was as well.

We all piled into the car, sans Coke Guy who was on his bike, and endured another terrifying ride home, one of the Alabama brother's erection poking me in the hip the whole way, as I had to sit on his lap, but going 50 through Brooklyn, it wasn't a long ride. Soon after we all reconvened, Coke Guy showed up and slapped down another baggie. We all did a few snorts, then Nicole and Mackenzie retired to their lairs with an Alabama brother each, leaving the Pox, myself, and Coke Guy all staring at each other.

So he flipped out another baggie... and another and another. I'd never seen so much coke in my life. He'd forget one was on the table and bring out another, and another. He asked for beer, but we had none, so we just kept snorting the coke until dawn broke. In a daze, neither the Pox nor myself had figured out how to get rid of him. He seemed perfectly at ease, himself, and there was also this tiny idea that we had to politely chat to say thanks for the coke, but then he'd flip out another baggie and it just kept going.

Finally - FINALLY - one of us said we have to go to bed, and if he could please leave, or he could crash on the couch, but preferably leave... He looked up sharply at this, looked at us both, and said, "I thought I'd be getting more than beer out of this." We stared at him, befuddled, coked beyond words, and he sadly started packing up his coke. However, he couldn't get it back into the baggies. He asked for a MetroCard, which I didn't have, and the Pox shook her head vehemently, thinking he wanted to borrow it to get on the subway and she'd never see it again. It took a lot of thinking - the hamsters turning the wheels in our brains having died of a coke overdose hours prior - to realize he just needed it to scoop the coke back into the baggies.

Another painstaking process took place, getting every last crumb and trail back into the bag, then he left. Relief. Such relief. Except we couldn't sleep, at all. As the day got brighter, I sat on the couch trying to play solitaire on the Pox's laptop, blocking out the sounds of /smack-smack-moan-smack-moan/ coming from Mackenzie's room, just letting my brain rest and my heart recover. I don't know when it was, that day, a few days later, a week... Nicole asked how it went with Coke Guy, a sly smirk on her face, and I told her he left at daybreak, all innocence.

I've never seen an expression like that before - I can't describe the anger, horror, panic that flashed across her face. She yelled, "But I promised him! We couldn't pay for the coke, and I promised him!"

It took awhile to get out what the promise was - but Nicole had guaranteed, for a fresh supply of cocaine for herself all night, and us too because she's not totally selfish, that if he came back to our place he'd get laid. She'd assumed it would be me, since I'd talked to him the most, but the Pox was there as backup, and we hadn't come through with our end of the deal at all. She was absolutely terrified that this coke dealer would come for her, that she owed him something she was never going to pay for herself, and it was all my fault for not putting out.

Lesson learned? Don't drink Corona with lime. In the end, it can only result in getting traded to a drug dealer for sexual favors, and that's a situation nobody wants to be in.

Also: Don't do cocaine.

( bonus picture )

About 11 years ago, I bought a car. I hadn't owned one in years, but she came up for sale and I couldn't resist. A '68 Rambler*, powder blue, 3 on a tree, blocky and old and adorable. I named her Phaedra**. I only drove her twice, once on the way home where she died and had to be towed out to an auto shop; a second time when the mechanic refused to work on her at all and demanded she be removed from his business. This second drive was the most terrifying of my life. If you've never driven (or heard of) a 3 on a tree, it's a 3-speed manual transmission, the shifter being on the wheel shaft***. The car is practically unstealable because nobody knows how to drive one these days. I was given a crash course by the guys I bought her from and sent on my way; this second drive was weeks afterward, struggling to remember how it worked. Plus the brakes were bad, the turn signals didn't work and I kept mixing up my hand signals... and there was no speedometer. I collected my brother to be a pacer car; it was about 8 miles out to granny's house, much of it on busy roads.

The bright side? Every single person I passed over the age of about 50 brightened and smiled and waved enthusiastically as I went by. The down side? Everything else. My brother was supposed to go in front, you know, keep to the speed limit so I knew how fast I was going. But as I struggled with the transmission, he slowed down... and slowed down... and every time he did, I had to slow down too - with no brakes. I spent a lot of time veering into the ditch to lose speed, then swooping back out to catch back up. He'd see me come out of the ditch too fast and speed back up, then lose me and slow back down, so we had this sort of... slinky effect, I guess. Getting onto the highway itself almost gave me an aneurysm, I'm a biological coward, but I got it to granny's safely. I parked it there, intending to work on it slowly, enter it into some car shows, then got a job up in Portland and left.

Cut to about 2 years later, I'm on the phone with dad, wondering if I should sell it or order some parts and start working. My dad wasn't much for advice giving, not one of those dads like you see on TV, kicked back in front of the TV sucking on a pipe and ruffling his kids' hair. His nuggets of wisdom came, say, on the front porch, when he'd crumple up the roll of tinfoil he'd smoked his salvia/weed mix out of, and he'd whisper, "Oh my god, did you see that dragon? It WHOOSHED up the driveway!" When he did give input, it was surprisingly pithy. After a long and rambling deliberation, he cut in with, "Sometimes you just gotta cut your losses and walk away." Granny had been threatening to turn the damn thing into a flower planter, if only she could get the trunk open (it came locked, with some tantalizing rattling noises - never did figure out what was in there), then some old guy came over the mountains and knocked on her door. He offered her $300 for the Rambler, and he'd haul it away any day. I couldn't figure out how to hedge my bet on this one; I'd gambled and lost. I had her forge my signature on the necessary documents, and she collected the money. Next time I came to visit, Phaedra was gone. But I did have $300 (minus the $18 or so I used to buy granny a rack of Busch Light to say thanks for her patience), and a pretty good story. When I could remember it better, that terrifying drive knocked people's socks off. And other things... For whatever reason, girls who are into cars are either fetish territory or automatically suspect as lesbians****, so when I told guys about my cars, I'd get one of two reactions - "Oh my god that's so hot," or "Are you a lesbian?"

One night not too long after Phaedra's departure, I went out to meet a guy... I can't remember his name, actually, let's call him Colin. So, I don't really date to "type." Sincerely and truly, personality and intelligence are way more important than looks. That said, if I have a type, it runs to tall, skinny, fluffy haired, beaky nosed, and covered in tattoos. Colin was all of these things - about 6'4", built like a scarecrow, nose like Pinocchio after 10 lies. So there we are on our first date, having identified him in a bar thanks to his outlandish socks, and we immediately strike up a bizarre conversation where he tells me he's into the arcane. Like, Aleister Crowley type of arcane. Which, fine; I'm an agnostic Quaker Jew, I won't judge. After a few beers, though, he told me his trick to dating - masturbate beforehand and smear the juices all over your underpants. There may or may not have been a spell along with it. Wash your hands so it ain't so obvious, but go out laden with pheromones and you'll be beating the ladies (or laddies) off with a stick. On the walk back to his place, we started talking about cars. Over the Hawthorne Bridge, I waxed poetic, all about my '69 Rambler (that was a Freudian slip if such things exist, as it was a '68), all the way back to his place. After he showed me his collection of occult books and introduced me to his cat, we got a little snuggly. Stayed up late doing some light necking (for real, just making out... I might be fast, but I ain't easy), and the next morning he was kind enough to send me off with cab fare. I used the money for a bus ticket and grocery store sushi, stomach wobbly, head throbbing, the sunlight streaming ice picks into my skull.

Footnotes:

*Like this but way more beat up.
**I was pretty obsessed with this song back then.
***I wish Youtube had existed in 2005, so I could watch videos on how to drive a 3-speed manual transmission.
****Let's not even get into the whole gender/sexuality identity spectrum problem here... just a subjective and fast explanation of my past experiences being judged solely on my hobbies and interests.

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This has been an entry for therealljidol. Please also see my teammates' entries (and vote for us all!), which are: i_love_freddie, ellison, inteus_mika, and prog_schlock.

Two mornings ago I woke up and coughed once, a thumb-sized piece of phlegm in my throat. Still in bed, I grabbed the nearest thing to me and hocked into it, staring at a gray-flecked jelly-like wad of mucus. From my lungs. Better out than in, but I've been quitting smoking for months now, obviously not successfully, and here was proof of my backsliding.

I just smoked my last cigarette before coming to write this. It's my last because tomorrow is my birthday and my quit date. I've got nicotine gum and a book called The Easy Way to Quit Smoking, which actually doesn't recommend gum or any other replacer, but there it is - I already bought the gum so I have it just in case. The book talks about psychology versus physiology, and being on a quest to regain control of my psychology, I find it very helpful. I do recommend it.

I haven't smoked marijuana since June 6, 2015. I've been drunk exactly since 3 times since July 31, 2015. Each time I did so because I was avoiding emotions and dealing with stress in the least helpful way possible. It's been... 5? years since I did cocaine, even longer for any other drugs.

I'm tooting my own horn a little bit, listing the accomplishments, but here's the thing: If you've read my comments on your own entries, you'll notice I've been a bit emotional. I've stripped away all the layers that stand between myself and emotions, and it's utterly surreal. I like metaphors, and I've searched pretty hard for an accurate one - the best I can come up with is that it's like being outside on a bright sunny day and taking off your sunglasses. It hurts. Your eyes tear up, you feel blinded at first, you can either put your sunglasses back on or you can adjust to the daylight and keep going. This time, I'm keeping going. It's me in the sunlight, me and my emotions.

I looked up 'abstainer's vow' and ran across mentions of the Nazarites; I have a degree and a half in religion so I thought at first I'd come up with some amazing story or a nice essay that would blow your minds. But then I looked up the definition of abstain itself. It is to "restrain oneself from doing or enjoying something."

I can restrain myself from smoking because smoking isn't actually enjoyable, it's simply something else to do when I'm bored or frustrated or need time to myself. Granted, I can't actually shake my mom til her teeth rattle*, but I don't have to go outside and smoke to deal either. There's no great wrap-up to this, no real meaningful and witty zinger of a last sentence, but a simple thank you to the people around me who have encouraged and supported me. You guys have done it, and you didn't even know it. The enjoyment of reading your entries, the amazing comments I've gotten on my posts, the conversations that have started - all these things are meaningful to me. You never know when your tiny action is a huge deal in someone else's life, or when your kindness and interest are the bright spot in someone else's day.

*Example of a maternal interaction:
Me: "I'm going out to the garage, back in a second."
Mom: "It's dark so turn on the porch light."
Me: "..........."

Me: "I'm going for a walk."
Mom: "Tie your shoelaces tight."
Me: "........."

She says it's a mom thing, that you never stop worrying about your kids, but in my opinion, if I fail to turn on the porch light and fall down the stairs, I sort of deserve it. Or if I've reached the age of (almost) 36 and can't remember to tie my shoelaces, something is very wrong.

Bonus song:

edit: Please also read my teammates' entries and vote for us all! i_love_freddie, prog_schlock, inteus-mika, and ellison!