If You Have to Ask

7 04 2010

Hey baby, what’s your sign?

Your life path number?

Your MB personality type?

What is it about people that makes us want to be categorized?

I have been fascinated by astrology since childhood, and have been awed by the accuracy of mine and some of my friends and family member’s natal charts.

I have been to psychics. I’ve had palm and tarot readings.

Maybe numbers hold the key? Or face-reading.

Chinese astrology?

When I was pre-teen I was briefly obsessed with handwriting analysis.

What does it mean that I am an INTP Capricorn Rat with a Life path Number 3 and floating irises?

I have always been one to chafe at labels, yet I continue to seek out ways to slap them on myself.

Perhaps it is easier to calculate a number, or match up a birth date, than it is to do the hard work of self discovery.

Maybe one of these occult sciences is the one we should all be listening to, while the others are nonsense.

Maybe they all have something to contribute.

It seems as much as we fight being put into boxes, we secretly want just that.

Please, someone tell me who I am. Give me an excuse for my shortcomings, and give me hope that I have innate positive traits.

Explain away why I can’t get along with that whiny Pisces or that arrogant Life Path 1.

Get out your label maker, life, and stick some on me.

Because I can’t figure this shit out on my own.

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Not all baked goods are your friends: a cautionary tale

23 03 2010

Once upon a time, the Balls n Chain talked me into letting him go on a once in a lifetime trip to Vegas for his friend’s 30th birthday. Thus, leaving me unsupervised for an entire….I don’t remember….5ish summer days.

I did what any responsible adult would do to pass the time. I called up my friend and declared, “We are SO making pot brownies!”

Ahem.

I was ready to get scientific.

So, I hopped on Google and within minutes had a step by step tutorial of how to heat strain and make brownies with the THC infused oil. You know, instead of just throwing a bunch of weed in some brownie mix and trying to choke that shit down. (You know you’ve done it.)

I followed the directions perfectly. We each ate one or two that night but the results of the test of their effectiveness seemed inconclusive. Perhaps I should have taken more note of the fact that we both passed out still sitting before 11pm.

This particular weekend I was (not uncommonly) alarmingly low on groceries, so I hadn’t been eating much. The following day I didn’t eat breakfast in the morning, or lunch, or dinner. At about 3pm, I grabbed a brownie. Then I grabbed another at 3.30, and two more at 4.00.

Before you begin to wonder if I am a complete idiot, let me explain a bit of history. I started smoking pot when I was 14 years old, heavily at times. I have gone hit-for-hit with 200 lb dudes in morning til night smokefests, hardly batting an eye while they end up puking in the fetal position. I have never even had a problem going on with my every day tasks, let alone had a “freak out” or become physically ill. I’d never even had the textbook symptoms like cotton mouth, paranoia or mild hallucinations. It had always just been a little mood booster for me, no matter how much I smoked. That shit was for pussies.

Ahem.

So, 5.00 rolled around the realization hit me that I was totally high. Awesome, the brownies did work!

But then 6:00 passed and 7:00 struck. And I realized that I was fucked.

This is where the memories get fuzzy.

I remember laying on my couch feeling like invisible waves kept crashing over me and I couldn’t possibly move to escape their wrath. My mouth suddenly became so extremely dry that it reminded me of Jim Carrey in Me, Myself and Irene.

I became convinced that my throat was so dry that it was going to stick to itself and obstruct my breathing and I would surely die. At some point either I actually discovered a bottle of apple juice on the floor next to me or I just imagined it. I’m still not sure.

I remember sending Andy several Twitter DMs from my iPod Touch apologizing for every time I had ever fucked with him while he was high and freaking out. But, I could only type three or four letters at a time before things would go all wavy and I would almost puke, so I would have to close my eyes for a few minutes and then continue. I didn’t give up though, because at that moment it felt extremely urgent and important. I felt truly repentant for these stoner sins and felt that I was somehow being punished.

Minutes after I sent these messages, he showed up at my door. This seemed like fucking magic to me at the time. I vaguely remember stumbling to the door in my blanket and then hurling myself back onto the couch.

Eventually I realized that I had not gotten dressed that day or even so much as brushed my hair. Not only was I braless in a rather see-through shirt, but my cankles were exposed, and this realization was quite alarming. So, I somehow dragged myself to my bedroom and did manage to get dressed.

But every minute that passed I was feeling worse. At this point it had been 5 hours since I ate the first brownie with no end in sight. I wanted to cry like a baby.

At some point I ended up laying on the floor nearby as Andy used my computer. Every time I opened my eyes it was like everything was sort of rocking back and forth in that wave-like motion, and it got worse if I tried to sit up.

Every 20 minutes or so I would stumble to the bathroom, though I really wanted to crawl there, dry heave for a while, lay my face on the cold tile, and then return to my place on the shag carpet.

I kept wanting to talk, but it was as if it was physically impossible for me to make words come out of my mouth. I could feel them pressing on the inside of my mouth but could not force them out. Every time Andy would say something, I could feel and almost see the words mixing up and floating around and bumping the outside of my head so that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Every little thing that would happen or was said, I would immediately ask myself did that really just happen or did I imagine it? I absolutely could  not discern reality from delusion. It was a nightmare.

The whole time I knew that if I could just eat something I would feel better, but it felt like a huge insurmountable task. I remember asking for a glass of water and then just staring at it, feeling like it wasn’t possible to pick it up and drink it. I managed to go into the kitchen and scrounge up a Pepcid, thinking it would stop the intense nausea. But then I lay down again, sat it next to the glass of water and just stared at it longingly. I can’t quite describe the sensation I had that these small tasks were absolutely overwhelming and impossible.

I dragged myself to bed that night absolutely sure that I would not wake up. When I indeed did wake up the next morning, the glass of water and pill were still sitting on the carpet, untouched. I couldn’t remember if Andy had really been there or if I had imagined the whole thing. My memory had gaping holes and I was still high. I remained that way for the next three days. By the second day most of my memory had filled in but some of it is still quite fuzzy now.

And this little story is why I will never, ever again in my life touch a pot brownie, cookie, lollipop or any other orally ingested creation.

It may be the first time I ever turn down a baked good.





Guess Who’s Irish, Bitches!

17 03 2010

Okay, like 1/4 irish.

Close enough.

More importantly, I come from the craziest little Irish village this side of….well…Ireland.

Strangely enough…..it’s in Michigan.

Although I haven’t spent a St Patrick’s Day in Michigan in at least five years, I always get a little sentimental and home sick around this day.

Because to me, nothing will ever say home like:

  • green beer
  • bar fights
  • getting my ass kicked for not wearing green
  • ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’ apparel
  • dirty leprechaun jokes

After all, only so many hometowns can be the home of the oldest tavern in Michigan.

The population may be less than 500, but every one of those bitches can out-drink yourface!

On second thought…maybe I’m okay with admiring from afar and being thankful that my nose won’t be the one broken this year.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Especially to those reading from The Hubb. Represent!





First Dance with Mary Jane

5 03 2010

It was one of those summer days when there isn’t a cloud to be found in the sky,  like someone hand-colored the sky with ‘Sky Blue’ from a Crayola box.

A fourteen year old me (read: skinny bitch with all the parts still in the right places) sat alone in the tiny double-wide sized house I had called home since toddler-hood.

What is a small-town teen to do, home alone on a gorgeous summer day? Raid their parent’s stash of ganja, that’s what.

I had watched all the adults in my life toke up since I was old enough to see across the room, but for some reason I had never thought to try it myself until this day.

I rolled the world’s worst joint, and lit it on the stove burner because I couldn’t find a lighter, and smoked it.

I sat back down in the living room and thought I don’t see what the big deal is…

Then the storm door started to make a popping noise.

Hah, I laughed out loud, snap, krackle, pop! OMG…..rice. krispies.

And we just happened to have some in the kitchen.

Fate?

I think so.