Druuuuuugs

I've never been one to consume, imbibe, sniff, snuff, huff, puff, swallow, snort, or partake in any other handful of horrible and painful ways, drugs. Well, not my personal definition of drugs anyway. Please enjoy that caveat, I have an endless supply of them.

I've smoked pot probably about 10 times in my life with each experience increasingly nasty with me being not your typical stoner craving Doritos and all the potatoes in Idaho and maybe worrying that someone is looking at them but a jittery spaz verbally reguritating an endless diatribe about how I feel so jittery repeating the word jittery so many times that if my pot-smoking partners had enough energy to lift their heads from the back of the couch they'd pour the bong-water down my throat and send me out into the world to fend for myself.

The first time I smoked enough to feel it I didn't pass out like my (totally kick-ass) aunt (who bought me booze when I was in high school and let me borrow her BMW to run my dorky friends around), curled up on the couch looking so peaceful I wanted to slap her cherubic face. I was wide awake and wired and there was no decent food in her fucking house. I split a regular Coke with her, after I woke up her snoozing ass, and ravaged the icy remains of a box of Rocky Road ice cream in the back of her freezer.

Overall it was a super stupid night but let me tell you what. In between my crushing paranoia that my dad would somehow spontaneously know that I was up to something as reprehensible as smoking marijuana causing him to burst through the door at any minute with my first class ticket to Ground Town that was the best fucking ice cream I've ever tasted so I guess it was worth it for that.

I suppose I've never given out that drug-taker vibe. I've only been offered something more than pot a couple of times and I was too chicken to do it. I just knew I'd be that dumb kid on the cover of a Very Special Investigative Issue on the Scourge of Our Youth in People magazine after I sucked an entire can of whipped cream while being held upside down in some kids kitchen and ended up strapped to a wheelchair drooling into a cup and having my mother dress me in plaid pants with kitten sweatshirts for the rest of my life.

I just knew some bad shit would happen to me. Although I've always trusted prescription drugs, for the most part. Now in my old age I'm leery of taking anything wacky like anti-seizure medication to help me sleep. Seriously, doc, wtf? But I got my first taste of a narcotic when I was in high school and it was like experiencing my first orgasm. I liked it. A lot. Wanted more and always have. But not enough to seek it out because there's still the chicken factor and chocolate, which is my number one drug of choice.

I had my wisdom teeth out early, when I was 16 because my dentist was a direct descendant of Satan and enjoyed pulling or arranging to have pulled most of the teeth in my head. He decided I needed oral surgery again and this time the useless molars in the back must come out. It was not fun and I looked like someone had run my face over with an urban assault vehicle but I got drugs this time. Really nice drugs. Drugs I wanted to take to the prom then blow in the back of the limo.

Percodan. If I was to ever have a child I might be tempted to name them that. The love, it is still there. I took the first pill and within an hour my pain was not only a faint memory but I felt oh so shiny. Warm on the inside like all the angels in heaven had entered my body and kissed my soul.

I was lulled to sleep as if floating on the Sea of Drug-Induced Goodness and woke up needing another, which I didn't get because my parents were stingy freaks who didn't give me a lick of credit for being scared shitless of drugs despite my instant and undying love for Percodan and went by my dad's previous little "problem" with Valium in the 60's and took my beloved dope away from me parsing out a few measly doses then hiding them in their bathroom.

Which I found later when some schmuck in gym decided to pop my shoulder out of the socket but my mother didn't believe that I was in excruciating pain (typical) and I had to borrow a sling from a friend who'd broken her elbow in an unfortunate hood-riding accident that I was witness to (another story for another time) and I found my bottle of pills which I stole back from my parents and proceeded to eat them all in a few short days plus a few of the same that were my dads. So there.

Oh yea, there was that one time I was screwing around with some fringy-type friends, again in high school, and we had ditched class to hang out at Denny's and cut, with my gas card, "lines" on the table made from Sweet-n-Low. I just had to push my very sophisticated comedy one step further and scooped up a toot in my always long coke-looking pinkie nail and up my nose it went. My gawd, the pain. I blame my 17 year-old Swiss cheese brain for that one. To this day I don't like the taste of the pink stuff. Blech.

But really, that's all I had the guts to do because you know, the drooling bad sweater thing has always loomed over my head. Booze has been my thing which isn't nearly as scary as real drugs because, you know, spinning around the room and puking 20 times until you burst blood vessels in your eyeballs is a cake walk. But I can't do that anymore either so fooey! I've developed such a craptacular allergy to alcohol that I can't even get a nice little buzz from a lovely bottle of wine when I want to without paying dearly.

So, I can't drink, I won't do illegal stuff because I have no luck, I'm a sensitive freak of nature and bad things will happen to me, my thyroid meds don't get me high and my inhaler just makes me feel like shit so what is a girl to do? I could take Pamprin because that does a fairly good job making me feel warm and fuzzy but it also knocks me unconscious for about 5 hours and when you want to party and get a little funky and maybe your freak on you don't want to be snoring in the corner!

All I have left now is the occasional doctor recommended and prescribed pharmaceutical assistance that will kill 2 birds with one pill taking care of whatever ails me adding the extra bonus of getting a little happy. Odds are if you have to take something like that you're in pain one way or another so you deserve relief with being harmlessly but gloriously glazed at the same time. Makes perfect sense to me.

Therefore I'd like to voice my disdain and displeasure for whoever or whatever asshole entity decided it would be clever to add codeine to cough syrup for poor, unfortunate girls afflicted with her second bout of barking bronchitis with a head cold in between in 4 short months causing gallons of snot to pour from her face, wheezing, complaining, misery, general malaise, and rendering her useless to all mankind it's really fucking shitty that the special ingredient in that wonderful drug that makes all the bad things go away and replaced with the shiny has been REMOVED!

You, good sir, SUCK.