In honor of April Fools Day, here is the story of my favorite prank I ever pulled. First, let's set the scene. It's the spring of 1994. I am 22 years old, a theatre student in college in Texas. I am dating a fellow acting student who is, shockingly, just as melodramatic as I am.
The details of the beginning of the story are lost somewhere in the murky depths of old memory, but the prank grew spontaneously at a party one night as all the crazy theatre rats got drunk together. My boyfriend, David, was pissing me off for some reason I can no longer remember. It was common for us to fight, so it could have been anything really. What made that night special was that I was in a very evil yet creative mood. Plus, David had also somehow managed to piss off his roommates as well. This was how it started...
I went to Bart and Mike to complain about David. As the guys who lived with him, I often consulted them on my David problems. When they told me they were annoyed with him, too this particular evening, a plan formed in my brain.
"I want to get him back," I said. "He pulls this shit on me all the time."
Bart gave me a look. Or he was really drunk. "What do you mean?"
"Do you guys want to help me scare the shit out of him?" I asked, keeping as straight and serious a face as possible.
Mike grinned his toothy lion grin and grunted his drunken approval.
I quickly explained my plan and dispatched my minions. Bart and Mike loudly announced that they were going camping so they could go fishing in the morning, so they better leave the party now and all. Twenty minutes later, I convinced David to take me back to his room and do naughty things to me, since his roommates were gone for the night.
We went back to his apartment, where Bart and Mike were already hiding in the bedroom closet, waiting and trying to be quiet. I got David into bed.
"Do you want me?" I asked in my sexiest voice.
"Yes," he replied, groping drunkenly in the dark. I heard one of the guys stifling a snicker in the closet. I moaned a little to cover up the noise. Dammit, not yet!
"Tell me what you want me to do to you!" I demanded, unbuttoning my shirt slowly. David was a drunk and horny college guy, so he was quite happily in the palm of my hand at that moment. He began explaining in vivid and colorful detail all that he had in mind for that evening. I thought Bart and Mike were going to blow it they were trying so hard not to laugh. David never heard them. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only.
I finally decided he'd had enough, and it was time to bring the hammer down.
"Well then," I said, "These pants have GOT to come OFF!"
That was the prearranged signal Mike and Bart had been waiting for. They burst out of the closet, screaming and waving their arms, "AAAAAAAGGHGHHHH!!!!!"
David freaked smooth out. He shot 2 feet straight up into the air (still not sure how that is possible, but I saw it with my own eyes!) and leaped out of bed, pushing past all three of us and running out the door, leaving me and Bart and Mike slumped on the floor, laughing hysterically.
He didn't speak to all three of us for quite some time after that. I can't say that I blame him. It was a cruel trick. But I can't take it back. And it was fucking hilarious.
Epilogue: David survived a two year relationship with me and I don't think he suffered any lasting scars. He is now happily married with a beautiful family, and I hope he thinks this story is as funny as I do.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Winter is Dumb
The cold is wrong. So, so wrong. And when I say wrong I mean evil. If there is a hell, my friends, it most certainly is cold.
There are people who say they like the cold. These people are either filthy, lying humans, or they are aliens from another planet. These are the douchebags who'll chime in with, "Oh I'd rather be cold because you can always put on more clothes." What kind of retarded thing is that to say? I mean, seriously. When I'm wearing tights, pants, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of socks, shoes, a jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, AND mittens, then no, asshole, I really can't put on any more clothes. And I'm still fucking cold. And my face feels like a sheet of pain.
Waiting for a bus in Chicago one nipple-achingly cold day, I had a startling realization: The only thing AT THAT MOMENT between me and death (fucking DEATH!) was four layers of fabric. If I didn't have these thin pieces of fabric and thread wrapped all around me, I would die in a matter of hours. Granted, it would be the groovy kind of death where you go numb and hallucinate, but it would still be death. That's when I decided to move back to Savannah where I'm more likely to die in a tank top and flip flops.
That's also when I realized that cold places are not a human's natural environment. I understand that we as a species have evolved through ice ages and have established civilizations in all but the coldest regions of our planet, but just because we lived to love another day doesn't mean we were meant for the cold.
First of all, we don't have fur. Seriously. My husband is of Russian/Eastern European Jewish descent. He is quite swarthy. He's the kind of guy with 5 o'clock shadow at 9 am. And yet he still lacks the follicular fortitude to brave out even the mildest of Southern winters without some form of clothing.
Second of all, in cold climates, there is very little of what humans call food growing. I understand that we all live near grocery stores now, but I'm just sayin'. The plants and animals we eat tend to thrive best in temperate and tropical climates.
And last, but not least, opportunities for reproduction and the subsequent survival of your genes are seriously hampered by a cold environment. I mean, come on now, when was the last time you had really good lovin' when it was cold? Maybe it's me, but I just don't enjoy getting all excited just to have my husband reach up my shirt and touch the warm skin of my belly with his Icy Cold Fingers of Death. And he's not really turned on by hearing me screech, "Don't touch my skin! Jesus Fucking Christ your hands are cold!"
I should really stop bitchin'. I live in Savannah, where the average winter high is 60 degrees. And there always seems to be at least one week out of every winter month that's 75 and sunny. And I love the occasional winter thunderstorms. And the ever blooming flowers. And the live oaks that keep their coats of thick, shiny leaves on all winter long. I guess if you've gotta do winter and you can't afford Hawaii, Savannah's not a bad place to weather out the winter.
But still. It's cold outside RIGHT NOW and I'm pissed about it. My skin is as dry and cracked as my sense of humor and I'm sick of freezing and shivering 10 seconds after my hot shower is over. I'm going to have another cup of coffee and crank up the heat.
There are people who say they like the cold. These people are either filthy, lying humans, or they are aliens from another planet. These are the douchebags who'll chime in with, "Oh I'd rather be cold because you can always put on more clothes." What kind of retarded thing is that to say? I mean, seriously. When I'm wearing tights, pants, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of socks, shoes, a jacket, scarf, hat, gloves, AND mittens, then no, asshole, I really can't put on any more clothes. And I'm still fucking cold. And my face feels like a sheet of pain.
Waiting for a bus in Chicago one nipple-achingly cold day, I had a startling realization: The only thing AT THAT MOMENT between me and death (fucking DEATH!) was four layers of fabric. If I didn't have these thin pieces of fabric and thread wrapped all around me, I would die in a matter of hours. Granted, it would be the groovy kind of death where you go numb and hallucinate, but it would still be death. That's when I decided to move back to Savannah where I'm more likely to die in a tank top and flip flops.
That's also when I realized that cold places are not a human's natural environment. I understand that we as a species have evolved through ice ages and have established civilizations in all but the coldest regions of our planet, but just because we lived to love another day doesn't mean we were meant for the cold.
First of all, we don't have fur. Seriously. My husband is of Russian/Eastern European Jewish descent. He is quite swarthy. He's the kind of guy with 5 o'clock shadow at 9 am. And yet he still lacks the follicular fortitude to brave out even the mildest of Southern winters without some form of clothing.
Second of all, in cold climates, there is very little of what humans call food growing. I understand that we all live near grocery stores now, but I'm just sayin'. The plants and animals we eat tend to thrive best in temperate and tropical climates.
And last, but not least, opportunities for reproduction and the subsequent survival of your genes are seriously hampered by a cold environment. I mean, come on now, when was the last time you had really good lovin' when it was cold? Maybe it's me, but I just don't enjoy getting all excited just to have my husband reach up my shirt and touch the warm skin of my belly with his Icy Cold Fingers of Death. And he's not really turned on by hearing me screech, "Don't touch my skin! Jesus Fucking Christ your hands are cold!"
I should really stop bitchin'. I live in Savannah, where the average winter high is 60 degrees. And there always seems to be at least one week out of every winter month that's 75 and sunny. And I love the occasional winter thunderstorms. And the ever blooming flowers. And the live oaks that keep their coats of thick, shiny leaves on all winter long. I guess if you've gotta do winter and you can't afford Hawaii, Savannah's not a bad place to weather out the winter.
But still. It's cold outside RIGHT NOW and I'm pissed about it. My skin is as dry and cracked as my sense of humor and I'm sick of freezing and shivering 10 seconds after my hot shower is over. I'm going to have another cup of coffee and crank up the heat.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Reduce, Reuse, Re-- oh, fuck it...
Apparently, Savannah's New Year's Resolution for 2009 is to recycle more. The city, after much pressure from concerned environmental citizens (I totally signed that petition), and much argument about how much it would cost us, finally relented and started a single stream recycling program. Our first pickup is next Wednesday. At first, I was thrilled.
A few weeks ago, a truck that was big enough to make Liam jump and squeal (hey, he's not even 2) rolled through the neighborhood, dropping off sleek, new black and yellow bins, complete with informational packets (god I love informational packets).
How exciting. I've always prided myself on being environmentally conscious. I eat very little meat. I buy fair trade goods and shop mostly from small, locally owned businesses. I even voted for Al Gore. I've just never recycled -- mostly because I've never lived in a place where it was possible. So now that Savannah has joined the 21st century and implemented a recycling program, the ball is in my court.
I was so excited. The helpful informational packet described the utmost in ease. Simply rinse your containers and place them in the bin. Cool.
Wait, what? I have to wash my trash before I throw it away? That's adding a step, isn't it? Oh, shit I'm in trouble.
Yes, my passionate environmentalism has just crashed head on into the brick wall of my laziness.
I can't just put stuff in the bin. That's outside. I need new containers for the house. And even though they said don't separate shit, I can't just dump the tin cans in with the glass beer bottles. And they said no wet cardboard, which means I have to store it in my house until pickup day (EVERYTHING gets wet outside in Savannah). So now, in my kitchen, are 3 new bins taking up valuable kitchen space, and I can't throw anything away without washing it and sorting it carefully into its bin. It seriously makes me want to eat baby seals and drive a hummer while littering.
I can't believe I am washing my fucking garbage. The planet is fucked.
I mean, seriously. I'm one of the eco-minded neo-hippie douchebags, and I'm sitting here at my computer looking at 2 soda cans and a yogurt cup in the living room trash can that I was just too lazy to walk all the way to the kitchen to rinse.
Like everything else in my life, I'm working on it. Until I get really good at recycling, I'll just have to content myself with feeling superior because I don't own a car. In your FACE, Oil Dependency!
A few weeks ago, a truck that was big enough to make Liam jump and squeal (hey, he's not even 2) rolled through the neighborhood, dropping off sleek, new black and yellow bins, complete with informational packets (god I love informational packets).
How exciting. I've always prided myself on being environmentally conscious. I eat very little meat. I buy fair trade goods and shop mostly from small, locally owned businesses. I even voted for Al Gore. I've just never recycled -- mostly because I've never lived in a place where it was possible. So now that Savannah has joined the 21st century and implemented a recycling program, the ball is in my court.
I was so excited. The helpful informational packet described the utmost in ease. Simply rinse your containers and place them in the bin. Cool.
Wait, what? I have to wash my trash before I throw it away? That's adding a step, isn't it? Oh, shit I'm in trouble.
Yes, my passionate environmentalism has just crashed head on into the brick wall of my laziness.
I can't just put stuff in the bin. That's outside. I need new containers for the house. And even though they said don't separate shit, I can't just dump the tin cans in with the glass beer bottles. And they said no wet cardboard, which means I have to store it in my house until pickup day (EVERYTHING gets wet outside in Savannah). So now, in my kitchen, are 3 new bins taking up valuable kitchen space, and I can't throw anything away without washing it and sorting it carefully into its bin. It seriously makes me want to eat baby seals and drive a hummer while littering.
I can't believe I am washing my fucking garbage. The planet is fucked.
I mean, seriously. I'm one of the eco-minded neo-hippie douchebags, and I'm sitting here at my computer looking at 2 soda cans and a yogurt cup in the living room trash can that I was just too lazy to walk all the way to the kitchen to rinse.
Like everything else in my life, I'm working on it. Until I get really good at recycling, I'll just have to content myself with feeling superior because I don't own a car. In your FACE, Oil Dependency!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Reign of Terror is Over
We gather here tonight to pay tribute to the most depraved, unscrupulous, in-your-face, asshole pirate the world has ever known. He was a badass motherfucker who took no prisoners and never compromised unless forced at gunpoint. He was a thief, a cheat, and a liar. I'm speaking, of course, about my cat Punkin.
Yes, Punkin J. "Poopstain" Morgan III, the Scourge of Ardsley Park (also known around the neighborhood as "That Fucking Cat"), died last night after a short fight with a big car. He was 12 years old. Which is a lot older in cat years.
So we've been crying about it all day and now it's time to party. In honor of my Irish roots, tonight Scott and I are having a good old fashioned wake. We are drinking beer and talking about what a great fuckin' guy that Punkin was. And in honor of Scott's Jewish roots, we're covering all the mirrors and sitting Shiva (but probably just for tonight -- I mean, seriously).
For those of you who knew Punkin, have a drink in his memory. For those who never met this gloriously evil cat, here are a few highlights from the life of a plain orange cat.
1. He was a Texan.
2. My brother-in-law called him The Murderer. Punkin's lifetime kill list includes: lizards, mice, rats, moles, snakes, birds (robins, blue jays, mockingbirds, fucking pigeons!), and too many squirrels to count. One year on my birthday (I swear I am not making this up) he brought me three dead squirrels and laid them in a pile, nose to tail.
3. He never backed down from a fight. I once saw him square off with a mastiff.
4. He used to supervise my baths. One time his tail caught on fire from one of the candles. I put it out before it burned his skin, but it melted the hair on his tail and I had to hold him down, cursing and screaming while I cut it off him. The hair, not his tail.
5. Sometimes, he would just start meowing randomly at 4 am. Nothing would stop him. Asshole.
6. Speaking of assholes, if you didn't pay attention to him when he wanted, he'd slowly and casually back up and put his asshole on the back of your hand or your book or whatever was keeping you from him. It was totally irritating.
7. He was the smartest cat I ever met. He was a problem solver. He figured out how to open doors, tupperware containers, and hook and eye closures for cabinets. We had to keep all our food in locked pantries and cabinets or he'd break in and just help himself to whatever. If he had thumbs, he would have ruled the world.
These are just a few. There are so many others. Like the time my roommate Toby and I watched him throw a dead blue jay in the air for half an hour just so he could "catch" it over and over again. Or the time he stole a cookie twice the size of his head right from the table in front of me when I looked the other way for 2 seconds. Or how he always looked at me like I was the asshole.
So on that note, raise your glass and drink to a hell of a guy who just happened to be a cat. Seize the day and live your life with no apologies. It's what Punkin would have wanted.
Yes, Punkin J. "Poopstain" Morgan III, the Scourge of Ardsley Park (also known around the neighborhood as "That Fucking Cat"), died last night after a short fight with a big car. He was 12 years old. Which is a lot older in cat years.
So we've been crying about it all day and now it's time to party. In honor of my Irish roots, tonight Scott and I are having a good old fashioned wake. We are drinking beer and talking about what a great fuckin' guy that Punkin was. And in honor of Scott's Jewish roots, we're covering all the mirrors and sitting Shiva (but probably just for tonight -- I mean, seriously).
For those of you who knew Punkin, have a drink in his memory. For those who never met this gloriously evil cat, here are a few highlights from the life of a plain orange cat.
1. He was a Texan.
2. My brother-in-law called him The Murderer. Punkin's lifetime kill list includes: lizards, mice, rats, moles, snakes, birds (robins, blue jays, mockingbirds, fucking pigeons!), and too many squirrels to count. One year on my birthday (I swear I am not making this up) he brought me three dead squirrels and laid them in a pile, nose to tail.
3. He never backed down from a fight. I once saw him square off with a mastiff.
4. He used to supervise my baths. One time his tail caught on fire from one of the candles. I put it out before it burned his skin, but it melted the hair on his tail and I had to hold him down, cursing and screaming while I cut it off him. The hair, not his tail.
5. Sometimes, he would just start meowing randomly at 4 am. Nothing would stop him. Asshole.
6. Speaking of assholes, if you didn't pay attention to him when he wanted, he'd slowly and casually back up and put his asshole on the back of your hand or your book or whatever was keeping you from him. It was totally irritating.
7. He was the smartest cat I ever met. He was a problem solver. He figured out how to open doors, tupperware containers, and hook and eye closures for cabinets. We had to keep all our food in locked pantries and cabinets or he'd break in and just help himself to whatever. If he had thumbs, he would have ruled the world.
These are just a few. There are so many others. Like the time my roommate Toby and I watched him throw a dead blue jay in the air for half an hour just so he could "catch" it over and over again. Or the time he stole a cookie twice the size of his head right from the table in front of me when I looked the other way for 2 seconds. Or how he always looked at me like I was the asshole.
So on that note, raise your glass and drink to a hell of a guy who just happened to be a cat. Seize the day and live your life with no apologies. It's what Punkin would have wanted.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Happy New Year! Not that I give a shit, really. I'm not trying to kill anyone's buzz or anything, it's just not one of my favorite holidays.
I do love making resolutions, though. I love declaring things, generally speaking, so New Year's Resolutions are my kind of fun. This year, I resolve to lose weight and call my mother more.
Ha-ha, seriously.
This year, I have decided to make New Year's Resolutions that I am actually going to keep.
1. I will take more naps. I will go down for a nap immediately when my kid does after lunch. Fuck the dishes. Fuck the phone calls. Fuck getting high and reading comedy articles online at Cracked.com. I swear I shall sleep in the middle of the day, snuggled under blankets and at least one cat.
2. I will finally admit that I fucking hate to cook and hereby swear to avoid it at all costs. Unless I need to make my vegetarian chili with cornbread. And even then, I shall complain the entire time I make it. This I solemnly swear.
3. I will give up the last shreds of hope that I will ever have any sort of fashion sense. I will abandon myself to this truth and wear whatever the fuck I want. I already started. Yesterday, I wore the clothes I slept in the night before (which I'd gone to bed in after wearing all day the day before THAT). It was great. I didn't wear a bra and my hair looked like crows were nesting in it. This is just an example, of course.
4. I will stop apologizing for shit I don't mean. I've been wanting to give over to this one for a while now, and I've already been practicing. This encompasses everything from the little, everyday apologies like saying "I'm sorry" to people when they bump into me, to the big apologies like, "I'm sorry I called you an asshole and kicked your chair." I'm really not sorry for much that I do (though some of it I probably should be), so I'm going to stop saying it.
And finally, 5. I will enjoy myself as much as I possibly can. I am a hedonist. A pleasure seeker. A person of deep appetites. This year I will indulge in them all with no shame or fear.
I hope everyone reading this has a great year. Learn, play, make jokes and have fun. It is the key to living in the Monkeysphere. (If you don't get the last joke, read on at: http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html -- it's worth the read)
I do love making resolutions, though. I love declaring things, generally speaking, so New Year's Resolutions are my kind of fun. This year, I resolve to lose weight and call my mother more.
Ha-ha, seriously.
This year, I have decided to make New Year's Resolutions that I am actually going to keep.
1. I will take more naps. I will go down for a nap immediately when my kid does after lunch. Fuck the dishes. Fuck the phone calls. Fuck getting high and reading comedy articles online at Cracked.com. I swear I shall sleep in the middle of the day, snuggled under blankets and at least one cat.
2. I will finally admit that I fucking hate to cook and hereby swear to avoid it at all costs. Unless I need to make my vegetarian chili with cornbread. And even then, I shall complain the entire time I make it. This I solemnly swear.
3. I will give up the last shreds of hope that I will ever have any sort of fashion sense. I will abandon myself to this truth and wear whatever the fuck I want. I already started. Yesterday, I wore the clothes I slept in the night before (which I'd gone to bed in after wearing all day the day before THAT). It was great. I didn't wear a bra and my hair looked like crows were nesting in it. This is just an example, of course.
4. I will stop apologizing for shit I don't mean. I've been wanting to give over to this one for a while now, and I've already been practicing. This encompasses everything from the little, everyday apologies like saying "I'm sorry" to people when they bump into me, to the big apologies like, "I'm sorry I called you an asshole and kicked your chair." I'm really not sorry for much that I do (though some of it I probably should be), so I'm going to stop saying it.
And finally, 5. I will enjoy myself as much as I possibly can. I am a hedonist. A pleasure seeker. A person of deep appetites. This year I will indulge in them all with no shame or fear.
I hope everyone reading this has a great year. Learn, play, make jokes and have fun. It is the key to living in the Monkeysphere. (If you don't get the last joke, read on at: http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html -- it's worth the read)
Thursday, December 25, 2008
I Don't Like Christmas.
You heard me.
Sure, when I was a little girl, the anticipation was great, and the new toys were always fun for a few hours, but I never really got into it. My mom and sister were always into it big time. My mom decorated the whole house and we always had a real tree and homemade Christmas cookies. No shit. My sister LOVED the piles of presents and appointed herself the Grand High Duchess of Gift Appropriation every year. She'd sit at the foot of the pile and get all excited touching all the boxes and the shiny paper and bows, reading the names on the tags and graciously handing out packages like a celebrity doing charity work for needy children.
Don't get me wrong. I don't hate Christmas or anything. I just don't enjoy all the stuff involved. I don't like the music, the shitty TV programming, the same movies every year, the sweaters with pictures of cats in Santa hats on them. Stuff like that. Our culture is so saturated with these images and memes at this time of year. Santa. Jesus. Red and green. Lights. Pine trees. Reindeer. Jingle bells. It's just everywhere and after awhile I'm just tired of it.
I think in economics it's called the Law of Diminishing Returns. In regular people speak, it just gets old fast. I think I first started hearing Christmas music in retail stores this year in September. I almost passed out with anger, realizing that if it starts in September, I will be burned out before Halloween. Fuck.
This year actually wasn't too bad. I got to spend time with my sister and her family (I don't see them enough). My sister has twin 3 year old little girls who are quite insane. I'm imagining a bloody coup in another few years in which the Twinzillas will gain power over the Great Handing Out of Presents. It was just chaos at Grandma's house tonight. There were torn gift boxes lying in 2 foot drifts against the chairs. The sounds of ripping paper were punctuated by screams and cries of, "Sissy won't SHARE!" I was drinking Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. Ho, ho, ho.
So I'm home now. Scott is passed out snoring in the next room (also courtesy of the Captain), and my son is in his crib sleeping off his Christmas high (he got new stuffed animals -- woo hoo).
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night's sleep.
Sure, when I was a little girl, the anticipation was great, and the new toys were always fun for a few hours, but I never really got into it. My mom and sister were always into it big time. My mom decorated the whole house and we always had a real tree and homemade Christmas cookies. No shit. My sister LOVED the piles of presents and appointed herself the Grand High Duchess of Gift Appropriation every year. She'd sit at the foot of the pile and get all excited touching all the boxes and the shiny paper and bows, reading the names on the tags and graciously handing out packages like a celebrity doing charity work for needy children.
Don't get me wrong. I don't hate Christmas or anything. I just don't enjoy all the stuff involved. I don't like the music, the shitty TV programming, the same movies every year, the sweaters with pictures of cats in Santa hats on them. Stuff like that. Our culture is so saturated with these images and memes at this time of year. Santa. Jesus. Red and green. Lights. Pine trees. Reindeer. Jingle bells. It's just everywhere and after awhile I'm just tired of it.
I think in economics it's called the Law of Diminishing Returns. In regular people speak, it just gets old fast. I think I first started hearing Christmas music in retail stores this year in September. I almost passed out with anger, realizing that if it starts in September, I will be burned out before Halloween. Fuck.
This year actually wasn't too bad. I got to spend time with my sister and her family (I don't see them enough). My sister has twin 3 year old little girls who are quite insane. I'm imagining a bloody coup in another few years in which the Twinzillas will gain power over the Great Handing Out of Presents. It was just chaos at Grandma's house tonight. There were torn gift boxes lying in 2 foot drifts against the chairs. The sounds of ripping paper were punctuated by screams and cries of, "Sissy won't SHARE!" I was drinking Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. Ho, ho, ho.
So I'm home now. Scott is passed out snoring in the next room (also courtesy of the Captain), and my son is in his crib sleeping off his Christmas high (he got new stuffed animals -- woo hoo).
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night's sleep.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Gateway Drug
I love getting high. I'm a thrill seeker. When I was a little girl, I would roll down hills and spin until I fell down, just to get the dizzy high. I loved roller coasters and tilt-a-ma-thingys. I rode bikes and horses as fast as they'd go just for that butterfly feeling in my stomach. I used to try to hold my breath until I passed out, but I never succeeded. I also never played the "choking game" that some kids played, but that was only because I never heard of it. I sniffed markers with my sister. I blew up balloons (major cool headrush). I picked fights with tough girls. And of course, once adolescence was in full swing, boys became a very precious high, one that was constantly sought and obsessed over.
So it should come as no real surprise to anyone that I would eventually turn to drugs to alter my consciousness.
When I was 17, I discovered my gateway drug. Mountain Dew.
At first, it was just one here and there, no big deal. But then they put a soda machine in the cafeteria. And then my drama class met in the cafeteria, too. I started drinking more and more. One before classes started. One at lunch. One after school. Then between classes. Then sneaking them IN classes. Before anyone knew it, I was doing at least a 6 pack a day. And loving every jittery, jumped up minute of it.
With all that caffeine and sugar racing through my heart, every cell vibrated. I could sit still and feel my body humming. My brain raced through thought and emotion, thrilling me and driving me to do, go, talk, laugh, shout! By the way, this is why I've never done cocaine. If this is how much I love the caffeine high, I would quite likely blow my brains out on coke, and manage to be a colossal annoying douche at the same time (which is what most cokeheads are).
But I digress. Drugs will do that to you, see?
It turns out that Mountain Dew was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Then I went to college and discovered coffee and Vivarin. Then alcohol. Cigarettes. Weed. Mushrooms. Acid. Ecstacy. The good Tylenol with codeine. Well, you get the idea.
What started my chemical romance was caffeine. And it is the one drug that I have never been able to stop. I've quit all the others (and cigarettes were a fucking BITCH -- twice!). I still drink now and then (shit, I live in Savannah), and I will definitely not pass on a doobie. But none of those matter. What I can't quit is the caffeine. Hell, I didn't even quit when I was pregnant and nursing. I just cut down to two cups of coffee a day and the occasional diet soda. I still have several cups of coffee every day. And green tea. And also black tea. And sometimes diet soda.
Sometimes I "dose myself down" (that is seriously how I put it) and get to where I'm just having one cup of green tea a day. But one day I'll pass a coffee shop and the smell will hit me and I'll find myself ordering the largest cup of coffee possible with a shot of espresso. And I'm back.
I'll probably never quit. No matter what other fun ways I try to get high and have fun in my life, I'll probably do caffeine every day until I die. Or my kidneys fall out. Do people need interventions for coffee?
I'm quitting here for now. It's getting late, and I've got to set up the coffee pot for tomorrow morning.
So it should come as no real surprise to anyone that I would eventually turn to drugs to alter my consciousness.
When I was 17, I discovered my gateway drug. Mountain Dew.
At first, it was just one here and there, no big deal. But then they put a soda machine in the cafeteria. And then my drama class met in the cafeteria, too. I started drinking more and more. One before classes started. One at lunch. One after school. Then between classes. Then sneaking them IN classes. Before anyone knew it, I was doing at least a 6 pack a day. And loving every jittery, jumped up minute of it.
With all that caffeine and sugar racing through my heart, every cell vibrated. I could sit still and feel my body humming. My brain raced through thought and emotion, thrilling me and driving me to do, go, talk, laugh, shout! By the way, this is why I've never done cocaine. If this is how much I love the caffeine high, I would quite likely blow my brains out on coke, and manage to be a colossal annoying douche at the same time (which is what most cokeheads are).
But I digress. Drugs will do that to you, see?
It turns out that Mountain Dew was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Then I went to college and discovered coffee and Vivarin. Then alcohol. Cigarettes. Weed. Mushrooms. Acid. Ecstacy. The good Tylenol with codeine. Well, you get the idea.
What started my chemical romance was caffeine. And it is the one drug that I have never been able to stop. I've quit all the others (and cigarettes were a fucking BITCH -- twice!). I still drink now and then (shit, I live in Savannah), and I will definitely not pass on a doobie. But none of those matter. What I can't quit is the caffeine. Hell, I didn't even quit when I was pregnant and nursing. I just cut down to two cups of coffee a day and the occasional diet soda. I still have several cups of coffee every day. And green tea. And also black tea. And sometimes diet soda.
Sometimes I "dose myself down" (that is seriously how I put it) and get to where I'm just having one cup of green tea a day. But one day I'll pass a coffee shop and the smell will hit me and I'll find myself ordering the largest cup of coffee possible with a shot of espresso. And I'm back.
I'll probably never quit. No matter what other fun ways I try to get high and have fun in my life, I'll probably do caffeine every day until I die. Or my kidneys fall out. Do people need interventions for coffee?
I'm quitting here for now. It's getting late, and I've got to set up the coffee pot for tomorrow morning.
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