The needles are turning my once perfect arm into a freakish, deformed, bumpy scar. The constant increased blood flow to that part of my body is hurting blood flow to my brain and other important organs. After a treatment my thinking is fuzzy. Then a puff of the medicinal and I don’t care anymore until morning.
Long ago I realized that I am two shots of cheap bourbon away from being happy.
Or a bong hit of homegrown.
This has been a simple way of life for me. I do not recommend this to anyone else. I have been happier–the years from 1970 to 1979–but I was younger then.
I will stop being bad when I die.
Enjoy life. Often.
I looked back through my blog posts from several years ago and realized a few things:
- “But I can’t complain” is not something I’ve ever said. I complain a lot. I am the Complainer-in-Chief.
- I used to eat a lot more fast food than I do now.
- I still smoke marijuana, but now I might qualify for a legal prescription.
Do you want to shave my legs? My roommate’s girlfriend was questioning me from across the room. She came out of the bathroom totally naked. My roommate was at work. I was stoned so my judgement was thrown off. Her smile, and what I knew of her past, led me to believe she wanted to make whoopie.
It was 1982, sex, drugs and rock and roll were a big part of my life then. My roommate was a crack head. This attractive girl would run up the street and get it for him. She was fearless. That afternoon she taught me things you don’t learn in school. I was 24 and nearly a virgin. Twenty minutes passed and I was as wiped out as if I had wrestled a bear. There are events from my past that I wish I could forget, but this is not one of them.
He moved to Tranquillity. I am walking around the house in my underwear. He is gone. I took the longest shower using way too much water, and every light and tv in the house is on. He is gone, and he left his booze and seven bottles of wine. He is gone. the house smells like high grade marijuana. He is gone. I don’t have to cook dinner, and I can go low-carb. I don’t have to stock cookies, bread or cherry pie.. He is gone , safe and settled. . I am free to do as I please. Hell Yes.
I forgot that Katia, and Maria, were coming to give me a price on cleaning our house.
When I opened my bathroom door to show them, the smell of burnt herbs hit us in the face. Katia said something in Spanish like “Stephen est loco-loco.”
I know a little Spanish, so I said, “Oh si.”
They laughed and said in very good English that they wanted 130 dollars.
Still thinking in Spanish, I thought that was “mucho dinero.”
At twelve I was catching a buzz with my cute neighbor in the barn.
My father yelled out the back door, “Stephen, get on the mower!”
Our tractor was a red 1948 Farmall Cub with a sickle bar, and it pulled three rotary mowers. Our five acres of grass also had trees, stumps, and groundhog holes.
Slightly miscalculating a turn, the sickle bar cut down Dad’s fruit-bearing cherry tree, and several small pine trees he had just planted.
I told him that, all at the same time, a ground hog crossed my path and a big horsefly bit me. I smacked my cheek a couple times to make it look red. The horsefly had caused the accident.
I waited until after he had his martini to tell him.