Got Meth?

I wanted to tell Dr. A that I'd rather have my stomach stapled then try amphetamines. Instead I said that I Googled IT and didn't like the potential side effects. He shakes his head gravely, however with a faint superior smile at the corners of his mouth. He says, like to a child: I'm glad you Googled IT. However, my job as someone with extensive clinical experience is to put everything into a context for you. I want to say: how's this for a context? woman with lifelong panic disorder and hospitalization should perhaps, just maybe, possibly, not do meth. Instead I say, coyly: I couldn't NOT Google IT. He says: that's what I'm here for. Huh? Then, he scribbles something, gets up from his chair, walks toward me and goes: here. the other one won't be good anymore. they are only good for 30 days. And without any other words exchanged, he dismisses me with yet another prescription for a brand-name psychostimulant medication composed of racemic amphetamine aspartate monohydrate, racemic amphetamine sulfate, dextroamphetamine saccharide, and dextroamphetamine sulfate. As the saying goes, coffee is for pussies.

Abilify Me

Legalize it. Don't criticize it. Yah, mon, just found out that my new friend is yet another "antipsychotic." But it makes me engage people in small talk. And I crack jokes with car rental people. And I smile at the garbage collector. And I look at the bright side of feckin everything. In just a week! So? Yeah, so, hey Bristol Myers (I thought they made ham!?), if you pay me enough, I'll tweet about it!

Not So Sexy Addicts

Heroin addicts are really unappealing on the other hand. Even if they are comedians. They smell. Their clothes smell. They're on the nod all the time. They only talk about themselves. They're really itchy and scratch themselves all the time. I could go on. Wait! Is that Dave Navarro? Just kidding.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butterbabies!

Butterbabies is jealous because I have secretely started another blog that is going to be bigger and better, and where I won't complain about people's pronunciation of French articles (this being "lah" for le and "lei" for la.) And I won't write about my obession with Russell Brand (yum yum crumpets) or Michael Cera or Julia Child. I will not write about the nice cop (Officer Panilla) who gave me a cell phone ticket today or the fact that Abilify is a really really good drug and that I'm enjoying my new status as fag hag. What a horrible term on so many levels. Nevertheles...

Sword Play

The doped-up Spanish lawyer hit my car. The security guy saw it, though. But what really sucks that I'm going to have to visit him in his office with his torero swords and bullfighting posters and actually try to talk to him. He who spends his days in the parking lot smoking and hitting on all the pretty editorial assistants. He, who on top of his natural lisp now slurs his words. All three of us tried to sniff alcohol on him on Friday, when he barged into a meeting and anounced: "I hit your car." But it's probably pain killers.

A little drug called R.

Mirtazapine, Zispin, Remergil, Norset, Rexer, Remergon, Mirtabene, Avanza, Mirtazon, Axitas, Mirtaz, Promyrti, Noxibel, Mirzaten, Mizapin Sol. According to www.labelmesane.com, withdrawal symptoms can include: aggression, anxiety, balance issues , blurred vision , brain zaps, concentration impairment, constipation, crying spells, depersonalization, diarrhea, dizziness. electric shock sensations, fatigue, flatulence, flu-like symptoms, hallucinations, hostility, highly emotional, indigestion, irritability, impaired speech, insomnia, jumpy nerves, lack of coordination, lethargy, migraine headaches / increased headaches, nausea, nervousness, over-reacting to situations, paranoia, repetitive thoughts or songs, sensory & sleep disturbances, severe internal restlessness (akathasia), stomach cramps, tremors, tinnitus (ear ringing or buzzing), tingling sensations, troubling thoughts, visual hallucinations / illusions, vivid dreams, speech visual changes, worsened depression.

Piece of cake, right?

Little House and the Hash Pipe

Laura Ingalls Wilder smoked hash according to a new bio. Or maybe she made hash? Or hash she imbibed mushrrrroooms from the prairie? So what.

This Is Your Brain on Baked Goods

A. baked something not for general consumption yesterday. At one point he ate a chunk and reported he felt nothing, saying it's probably safe for me to have a little corner piece. Next thing I know I'm awake in an acid trip, my body turning into coils, which turn into maggots, which turn into snakes that I fold into a bouquet and beg my mom to kill by sticking them, head first, into a pot of boiling oil, searing their eyes. Then I swirled and twirled and almost became my bed until I had the will power to rise, surrounded by blind white eyes and the furtive steps of ghosts, to wake Abe and tell him to either call 911 or feed me a Xanax, stroke my back and not stop talking for a second, about beautiful things and love and peace. I fell asleep and today I'm walking on the egg shells of my self.

Doc on the Nod

Yesterday I saw a doctor in Beverly Hills. I had to wait for half an hour. When it was my turn, she had me sit at a little table and took notes while I answered questions such as: Have you ever had a transfusion? She kept falling asleep mid-sentence. At one point, her pen skidded across the whole page. It took 40 minutes. Then she wrote out my prescription, which took a full ten minutes. She scribbled, nodded off, scribbled again, right on top of the previous word, and then nodded off again. I would have thought she was on heroin, had she been younger and skinnier. I didn't know if I should say something. I didn't. So I just sat in silence and waited as she dosed. You think we need health reform?

Crackers, Jack!

I ate a whole box of whole grain crackers last night. They were meant for Milan and were supposed to last all week. I ate them the way Homer Simpson eats the contents of Marge's jewelry chest after taking an Ambien. I ate them at midnight when I couldn't sleep and the whir of the air conditioner was driving me to stare at the dark walls. I ate them after drinking a glass of water first. I ate them after I took a Klonopin, which only helped in that I ate the crackers slowly and dreamily, like a lazy machine. I woke up with crack pieces sticking to my sweaty chest.

I told Dr. S. He laughed. Then he asked: Did you eat them very fast? Me, no slowly. He: Like one after the other. Did it take 1/2 hour? Me: no more like an hour. He: when you started, did you know you were going to eat the whole box? Me: are you kidding me? hell no. just one or two. Or five. Me: this is the first time ever I've indulged in what you guys call binge eating. He: yes, it's very funny if you can laugh about it. Me: this is what I think of myself: I. am. a. fat. pig. and. I ate. like. a fat. pig. Then I had to laugh. He laughed too. It's good to be light-hearted about this, he said.

And gave me a prescription for dopamax, just in light of the seriousness of the situation (i.e. 1400 calories to the box) and some prescription strength folate, so my feet don't fall asleep. Well done.

Rock Stars

Last night at 2:45 a.m., while I was in exhausted slumber, A. hung out with rock star X., who shall go unnamed, who rambled and raved high on E., heroin and Big C, on Sunset Blvd. While shooting a music video. X. performed with puke all over his shirt and mismatched socks and the crowd went crazy. Later, on the back seat of A's car, he parted his beard hair, and A saw a ring of crusted coke around his right nostril. A said in the wee hours, it looked as though his car were floating on clouds with X's feet dangling of the trunk. Such a beautiful image.

The Fat Lady Sings

The time has come. After getting into an altercation with my Harley-driving, noise-loving lowlife neighbor across the street, during which I called her a bitch and she called me a fat cow, Dr. S. has finally agreed to allow me to come off the R. I'd rather be called a vicious cunt or an ugly whore, but fat cow had me curled up on the sofa sobbing for three hours. So now, my task at hand is devising ways to prevent me from becoming a raving lunatic as the soft cushioning of the drug is being peeled away, minute by agonizing minute. When you first take R., after a very short time, you feel like the most normal, happy person in the whole world. You sleep at night and wake up in the morning thinking of coffee instead of Sylvia Plath vs. Hemingway ways to go. You can take care of your baby without wishing it were dead. You can have friends and conversations and make plans that don't involve knives. Then, after a few month of bliss, you notice that---egad---you have gained thirty pounds, but you reckon being fat is superiors to being suicidal. Then the fat just stays and next thing you know you're a fat cow and that's that. The fat lady sings.