druuuuuuuuuuuuugs

I have lifted the subject for this post from the lovely and talented, the beneficent, the resplendant, the completely cosmic Ms. Surlygirl! You can find her at:
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
Go there and find out just why Ms. Girl is so popular among today's webnosceti. You'll be glad you did! ......................(was that good? did i do it right?)
I like drugs; lets get that clear right now. I think they should be legalized, and I have no problem with whatever it is you want to take. You want to inject battery acid, thats 'ku. Don't assume I'll tie you off, but go ahead.
Although I have tried opiates (not worth the constipation), I have never stuck a needle into myself. If I become diabetic, I'll have to use a pump because there's just no way.
So, onward. I was a mere slip of a girl, only 13 years old the first time I smoked pot. Ah, the memories. It was at a concert. Never mind whos concert. Oh all right, it was Elton John. A guy passed me a # , so I took a rip and passed it on. Seemed appropriate at the time.
Well! The two girls I was with were JUST! UTTERLY! SHOCKED! AND! APPALLED! (and too puss to take a hit, losers.) When school started that fall everyone already knew all about it... apparently certain somebodies had been burning up the telephone lines all summer.
And damn, did my stock go up! Kinda backfired on ya, didn't it, Terry and Jane! (Little twats.) Man, I was COOL. When I set the ladies room towels on fire later in the year my reputation was set in stone...I was one WILD ASS BITCH.
I did acid only once, when I was 14, during summer school ( yeah, fine I had to go to summer school. I kind of forgot to attend half of my freshman year. Hey, people forget things.) As God is my witness I will NEVER make that mistake again. I was SO loaded. And I stayed that loaded for eight hours. And I had to eat dinner with my parents...and my mother served boiled peas...and when I speared them with a fork, the peas...made a sound...and they burst.......and.......fluid.......ran.......out........
I usually just drank. Hell, I was a seasoned drinker at a very young age, as a consequence of growing up with a boozer who had boozer friends. Shit, I even knew how to pace myself. The downside was, nobody else my age did. So at a party, when everyone else around me was puking and crying and blacking out and crawling around in their underpants beneath the pool table, I was the one who always ended up confiscating car keys and unplugging the toilet. Yay! Nursemaid! Just exactly how I wanted to spend my teenage party years. So what did I do? I ended up with the guy who supplied drugs to that end of the county.
This dishrag would stick anything in his head. He did not care. He was also the individual who invented wake and bake. He punctuated his entire life with bong hits. Sit up in bed, take a bong hit. Drift into the can, take a dump, bong hit (no lie, kids. while he was sitting on the throne.) Eat breakfast, bong hit. Turn on the news, several bong hits. Leave for work, bong hit. Etc. He went from just dope to everything and anything pretty rapidly, and started substituting drugs for sleep and food and work, and me, so I left him.
Now that's not to say I didn't keep right up with him; I did. I just wasn't very impressed with any of it, though God knows I tried. Anyway, that pretty much wrapped up my druggie years.
After that, the only notable (I'm qualifying that; notable, now come on) time I've been high was back on New Years, in Canada. Down a couple blocks from our hotel there was an abandoned 'Sixties era movie theatre, and set into one of the steel foyer walls was a doorbell and an intercom. You pushed the doorbell, said 'Tom told me to come here for weed' and a door in the steel wall buzzed open. You went up the stairs to a rather nice brick loft, after passing under the scrutiny of the large scowling bald man with the police issue spring baton, and there, sitting behind a desk was the pleasant, ordinary dealer. You gave them the money and they retrieved a bag of the proper size from the drawer and off you went. Kind of like making a bank transaction. Wave to the cop parked across the street, "Hi mountie! Diggin' Vancouver!" Cop waves back, "Hi American! Diggin your cash!" and off you toddle to the nearby Blunt Bros.
Blunt Bros. is gone now...farewell, my first dope cafe! You opened the door and a giant steel-blue cloud whoofed out. And inside, the air was not only blue, it had texture. And mass. All being produced by a group of the most profoundly, on-their-lips, slack-jawed, staring stoned people; I mean STONED people. STOOONED PEOPLE.
It was like a museum vignette. Like the ones that show a group of fiberglas cavemen living their daily cave lives? Only this would have been titled 'North American wastoids reducing their braincells to whimpering submission: c 21st cent.". Only crunchables, pop and paraphenalia were on sale...basically the only draw was the 'oooo, we're breaking the law out loud!' cachet. Still, it was fun, and I honked down a great big heefin joint with some (fiiiiiine) french snowboarder guys who thought it was great fun to get the chubby housewife wasted.
Later on that evening we all wandered around town admiring the buildings and worked on burning that ounce down. I had an excellent time. Beautiful city, everyone in a celebratory mood, fun friends, and absolutely ass kicking drugs. Party on Wayne! Party on, Garth!