Slip Sliding Away

The picture below is interesting.  Okay, maybe not interesting.  It’s not even very good.  The colors are somewhat muddled and it’s a fairly generic shot of a California sunset.  However, it’s unique in that taking it is the last thing I remember doing before slipping into a blackout.  There are countless times I remember the last thing I remember before not remembering anything else; but this is the only time I have documented photographic evidence of the last thing I remember before losing the ability to do so.  It was Monday, January 2 at 5:16pm and I was standing on the side of the freeway (that’s what we call highways out here) taking a picture of what looked to me at the time like a very beautiful sunset.  And perhaps it was, and I am just a very lousy drunk photographer.

After stopping to take the picture there is nothing until very early the next morning when I was in the emergency room (again) at a local hospital.  And by ‘nothing’ I don’t mean bits and pieces or hazy memories.  I mean nothing … just taking pictures – blink – emergency room.  Ten-plus hours had gone by, granted I had probably slept through some of it (psssst … that’s code for ‘had passed out’), and I had absolutely no idea what had happened or why I was in the ER.

For the benefit of the uninitiated, there are two types of blackouts: fragmentary and en bloc.  With fragmentary blackouts you may remember some events, but be unaware that there are things you don’t remember until someone reminds you of them.  With en bloc blackouts, while you’re intoxicated you can remember what just happened for about two minutes, but that’s pretty much it.  For example, you can carry on a conversation, just not a very in-depth or coherent one.  But when you emerge from the blackout you will have absolutely no ability to ever remember what took place during it.  So no matter how many times your friends go, “Okay, come on now … we were at VonDouchenbergers?  Those bikers were playing pool?  Remember??  You jumped on the table in the middle of their game, pulled down your pants, poured a pitcher of beer on yourself and challenged everyone to a wet panty contest?  How can you not remember that shit??” You cannot remember that shit.  It’s a bit like having your brain coated in Teflon: nothing sticks to it.  The memories simply slide off never to return.

This concludes the education portion of our post.   We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging …

I am a blackout drinker of the en bloc variety.  Which, while having it’s drawbacks, such as surprise games of “Mystery ER Visit” and “Who’s That Sleeping In My Bed?”, can also be a bit of a blessing in that I’m spared the burden of carrying around memories of many of the stupid, humiliating, degrading and thoughtless things I did while under the influence.  But though I have a propensity for this type of blackout, there have been occasions when it failed me miserably.  Such was the case when, while in the midst of some social drama, I drunk-dialed my younger brother crying about the bitter injustice of the friend whose three-way curiosity I’d so generously helped satisfy and who was more than happy to be there while ‘I had her boyfriend’s cock down my throat,’ but who didn’t seem to have the time of day for me now that I was the one who needed her.

It was a regrettably memorable phone call and one I’d prefer to have forgotten.  And though I’ve never asked him, I’m quite sure that if offered, my little brother would opt to en bloc the conversation as well.

I don’t know how much I had to drink that day, but I bought a fifth of vodka for the drive … the 45-minute drive.  I know it was vodka because A) it can be transferred from its original bottle to an empty water-bottle so you look like you’re simply re-hydrating along the endless, arid SoCal freeway system and B) vodka is what we tend to drink when we’re hitting the skids.

I know this because in the anonymous meetings when people tell their low-bottom, down-and-out stories they might say something like, “So I’m sitting there in a crappy motel room, totally alone, except for my bottle of vodka …” and everyone smiles knowingly and nods because they’ve been there, when a bottle of vodka was the only friend they had left.  I don’t know if it’s because it’s cheap or because it does the job fast or because we think people can’t smell it on our breath, I just know that for so many of us vodka ends up being the booze of last resort.

Before vodka, Jack Daniels was my drink of choice; and that, coincidentally, is often the indicator of the period when a person still had their shit semi-together.  So inasmuch as someone talking about their bottle of vodka (and it’s almost always just ‘vodka,’ never Smirnoff or Seagrams or Absolut … I know, but we drink for the effect not the taste) signals the end, when a person says, “Of course, I was still drinking Jack at that point …” they’re generally talking about a time when they still had some control over their drinking.  And no one really talks about Jack (those of us who were fans feel we’ve contributed sufficiently enough to the company’s bottom-line to have earned the right to be on a first-name basis with their product) with disdain or contempt, either.  Rather there seems to be an attitude of respect and fond remembrance.

As for myself, although I now catch only the occasionally glimpse on a store shelf, when I see a bottle or hear the name I feel a little like Scout and half expect to feel The Reverend Sykes nudge me and say, “Miss Urethra. Miss Urethra, stand up. Jack Daniels’s passing.”

Sometimes I think about how short my posts would be if I could get my ATT (Adult Tangential Tendency) Disorder under control …

Anywayyyy, I have no memories of the period between taking the picture and being in the emergency room. I do, however, have cringe-worthy police and hospital reports, as well as third-party accounts from the friend whose house I was going to (whom I’ve spoken to since that night, but never of that night … I know only what she told my parents and what they relayed to me; and that is quite enough).  It seems she was instantly aware of my intense inebriation and invited me to leave immediately.  I apparently wandered around, perhaps lost or unable to remember where I’d parked my car five minutes before, until finding a friendly telephone pole to which I clung and cried until the police arrived.

I don’t know who called the police – my friend or a concerned (i.e. freaked-out) citizen; I don’t know who took me to the hospital – the police or the EMTs; and I don’t know to whom I expressed suicidal ideations.  What I do know is that at some point the decision as to when I would leave the hospital was no longer mine.  I was about to play a brand-new surprise blackout game called “You’ve Been 5150ed!”

A 5150, or 72-hour hold, is a section of the California Welfare and Institutions Code and is a means by which a person deemed to have a mental disorder that makes them a danger to him or her self, and/or others and/or gravely disabled can be transported to a designated psychiatric inpatient facility for evaluation for up to 72-hours against their will.

It was not my favorite game.

I’m Ba-aaack!

I imagine if you’re like most people I imagine, you’ve been sitting around since November gnawing on your fingernails until they bleed, glancing anxiously at the clock every few minutes and wondering just where the hell I could possibly be.  And I imagine if you’re like other people, those who have a life where I am not the center around which it revolves, you may not have noticed that I went missing late last year.  While I shudder to think of the emptiness of a life without me as the nucleus of its existence, I do take some comfort in knowing that at least those people didn’t have to suffer the pain of being forced to survive over half a year without being able to read me.

To those whose lives have been affected by my absence, I offer my most sincere apologies.  While it was never my intention to be gone for so long, I know that doesn’t make what you’ve been through any easier.  I can only ask for your understanding and hopefully your forgiveness.

In order to warm up to the tale of my whereabouts and wanderings, I refer you to an earlier post called “How To Lose Friends And Alienate People” where I disclosed that I was prone to doing some fucked up shit when I was fucked up on some shit.  The post wasn’t a laundry list of intoxicant induced embarrassing events, regrettable rendezvouses and sordid situations. Rather it was an attempt to understand and reveal myself, why I am the way I am, and where it had gotten me at that point; and, looking back, I think it was fairly accurate and spot-on … all except the part where I wrote, “I don’t have a disease or an addictive-personality.”  As it turns out, my pseudonym is Urethra and I’m an alcoholic.

Or maybe it doesn’t “turn out” because that would make it something previously unknown.  It could be that some of you or one of you read that earlier post and thought, “Who the hell does she think she’s kidding?”  I know it’s no surprise to me and it hasn’t been since I first went to rehab back when I was 22.  But when I wrote that post, as awful as I felt about losing my friends, I still wasn’t ready to say I was the a-word yet.  I didn’t want to be sober and go to meetings, I wanted to drink and go to bars.  I’d been an alcoholic and it was boring, I wanted to keep being a drunk and having fun.

You know what’s really boring though?  What’s really boring are people who have stopped smoking, started exercising, lost weight, gotten sober, had a baby or found religion and instantly lose their sense of humor and their ability to talk about anything other than how AWESOME their life is now that they’ve stopped/started/had/found ‘X’ in a way that subtly (or not so subtly) suggests that you and your life are crap and will continue to be crap until you stop/start/have/find ‘X’ just like they did.

I am not one of those people.

Did I stop drinking?  I did.  Have I given up eating handfuls of Vicodin like they they were Pez?  I have.  Do I still sit at home alone with a pile of cocaine because two 8-balls just doesn’t seem like enough to share?  I do not.  Is it true that I quit crushing and snorting a two-month supply of Ritalin in under a week?  Indeed it is.  Am I popping half-a-dozen Lunesta just to relax?  I am not.  Is my brain now free from all mind and mood-altering agents?  With the exception of the medically-approved pharmaceutical cocktail that keeps my bi-polarocity from teeter-tottering out of control; and nicotine and caffeine, which you can have when you pry them from my cold, dead, well-manicured lesbian fingers, it is.

Will my writing now be limited to the joy and wonder of being clean and sober?  Nope.  Am I going to tell you what step I’m working on or what words of wisdom my sponsor spoke?  I am not.  Are you going to start seeing inspiring quotes or cliched slogans from the anonymous program popping up in my posts?  You aren’t.

The bottom line is I stopped writing because my life face-planted so hard that keeping up on my blog was the furthest thing from my drug-addled, alcohol-soaked brain; and I stopped drinking and using because things got bad … really bad.  Not “danced on a table and threw up on my date” bad, but cops, emergency rooms and psych-wards bad.  And now things are getting better.  Not “I’m back at home and all is right with the world” better, but “selling my house will pay off some of my massive debt and it looks like I’ll get to do house-arrest instead of jail” better.  But now that the pickling and addling are in the past and the brainium in my cranium is getting back up to speed, I’m feeling ready to pick up where I left off.

So prepare yourselves to be awed and amazed by tales of recklessness, rehab and redemption … minus all the happy, sappy crappy stuff.  Look for “Welcome To My Nightmare 2 – Electric Bugaloo” where my parents run across a steamer-trunk full of porn at my house (why does your lesbian daughter have gay male porn? I don’t know Ma, ask Julianne Moore and Annette Benning … ); be sure to read “Who Tied Me To This Gurney?” as I wrestle with the question of whether to send a ‘thank you’ or an ‘I’m sorry’ card to the friend who had me carted off by the EMTs; you won’t want to miss “You’re Such A Good Listener,” the heartwarming story of the telephone pole that cared and supported me as I tearfully told it my troubles until the nice officers came and took me away; and in “The Rehab Reality Show” I’ll tell you what it’s really like to live in a house with six total strangers for thirty days … minus the cameras, paycheck and appearances on TMZ (also, stealth masturbation strategies when you realize you’re going to have a roommate and little or no privacy for a month).

It’s been a long, strange journey my friends … one that I’ll share with you in the weeks and months ahead. And while I know in all seriousness that my disappearance was hardly a blip on the radar, I do think it’s rude to drop off the map without so much as a “see you later” or “tootle-loo,” and for that I do apologize.  I’m looking forward to catching up on my favorite blogs, keeping up on mine and seeing what’s new out there. I’ve missed this and all of you … it’s good to be back.

Between The Sheets

In August 2010 NewDissidentRadio.com began airing Between The Sheets with Lora Somoza on Wednesday afternoons (4:00 PM, PST — previous shows are archived so you don’t have to wait for the next broadcast to get a little taste), a show so deliciously dirty it single-handedly puts the hump in Hump Day. Along with her co-host Amanda Smash Hyde (in my head I can’t help but picture an enraged, green, heavily-muscled dominatrix with pink eyebrows pummeling Danny Masterson’s character on That 70s Show whenever I think of her name … Amanda Smash Hyde! Grrrrr! … Don’t make her horny. You wouldn’t like her when she’s horny) and a parade of guests Somoza takes a comedic look at all things sexual, from ass-play to zombie fetishes (okay, I don’t know for a fact that those aroused by the living dead have actually been discussed but it starts with a “Z” and it would make an interesting topic, especially at this time of year … is someone from the show taking notes?).

If there’s any downside to the show it’s that it’s on the radio. Aside from being hysterically funny, Ms. Somoza also happens to be wicked hot, which is not apparent over the air but is abundantly clear in this picture:

Armed with this knowledge listening to her talk about sex can cause reactions that are the polar opposite of the creepy ones you may have once experienced when Dr. Ruth Westheimer explored similar topics.

I’d find it easier to masturbate to the show with a little visual assistance and fortunately someone was kind enough to post on YouTube a number of videos of the show being recorded, which makes my self-abuse much more productive. Unlike the wonderful world of my imagination, however, there isn’t a clip of Ms. Somoza bent over the desk in the broadcast booth with her dress bunched up around her waist. But I guess beggars can’t be choosers. We can however be hopers and dreamers … so to the powers that be, please consider this my formal request for such an upload.

I should also mention that aside from her weekly radio program, Lora is also a contributor to The Huffington Post and has written a book, Bliss In The Bedroom. That’s right bitches, she’s a published author. So if you don’t tune into her show simply because you trust my recommendation and respect my opinion, do it because she’s kind of a big deal and therefore better than us.

By posting this I realize it may appear as though I’ve sold out to the Internet Radio Man, man! Or perhaps I’ve given the impression that I’m plugging a *friend’s show simply out of the goodness of my heart. Let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. I remain the shallow purbert you’ve come to know and tolerate and as evidence that this post was motivated purely by personal gain I offer the following Facebook exchange:

Me: I put a link to Between The Sheets on my blog. Is that cool?

Somoza: I would totally give you a reach around if you were here right now. Thanks!!!

Me: *rings doorbell*

Somoza: *grabs lube*

Me: *wonders what she’d get if she did a whole post about the show rather than just having the link … also hopes it’s Liquid Silk*

Somoza: You’d get a liquid silk sponge bath and finger-banged by my sock puppet.

Me: Do you have the Law & Order: SVU sock puppet collection? Cuz I wouldn’t mind getting double-teamed by Olivia Benson and Alex Cabot. You can wear the Eliot Stabler puppet on your foot if he wants to watch.

Somoza: I just tweeted this: “I just had a conversation that had ‘Law & Order: SVU sock puppets’ and ‘finger-banging’ in the same sentence. That’s normal, right?”

My work here is done. I’m ready for my sponge bath Ms. Somoza …

*Although I am deeply in love with her (wait … maybe it’s lust … which is the one where you have recurring dreams about their perfect “suck it Jolie, you’re not the only one with lips” lips??), I must admit that I’ve never even talked to Lora Somoza. The extent of our relationship is the occasional bone she tosses me by ‘liking’ my comments on her posts (which makes me go all Sally Fields getting an Oscar) and being kind enough to respond to the messages I send rather than filing a restraining order against me. I use the word ‘friend’ strictly in the Facebook, person I’ve never actually met sense.

How To Lose Friends And Alienate People

I am one of the nicest people you’d ever hope to meet. Seriously. In my entire life only two people have ever found the need to call me a bitch (I exclude from my list, of course, fellow drivers who become irate when I putter along at 85mph and men from the dating site … and I use that term loosely … I belong to who have irrational rage issues and assume I’m a lesbian because they suffer from micro-penis). The first time I was called a bitch (or ‘you bitch’ or ‘dumb bitch’ or ‘fill-in-the-blank bitch’) was by an ex-girlfriend from many moons ago who showered me with all manner of colorful monikers when she didn’t get her way or I was right about something, which was most of the time. In that case, I don’t feel that I was being a bitch in the general sense of the word as much as she was just a big, pouty baby in almost every sense. The second time was by a friend and much more recently. Although, since she generally favors calling me ‘you fucking cunt’ I actually consider it more a term of endearment when she simply goes with ‘bitch.’

I’m kind, decent, honest, generous, trustworthy and loyal. I’m also smart, funny and a hell of a lot of fun to be around. On the other hand, I’m a complete asshole. Not a douchetard-asshole, more of a dumbfuck-asshole. I’m manipulative, sneaky, full of shit, selfish, irresponsible and neglect people who love me in favor of those whose approval I seek. I’m also dense, annoying and a pain in the ass. It’s as though every good characteristic that I can identify in myself has an evil twin who’s just as easily recognized (I’m generally confident and usually insecure … see??!). It’s frustrating to me and maddening to those around me.

Half a lifetime ago, I was the good kid who was always up to some kind of shenanigans. I was Goofus and Gallant, cheeky but goodhearted, the likeable little scallywag no one could stay mad at. I was adept at getting away with things or talking my way out of trouble. It was part of my charm. But as I push toward the half-century mark, being the fuck-up with great potential is no longer cute and endearing, but sad and pathetic. And frankly, people are getting fed up with me.

It’s no secret to those who know me that I enjoy the mood-altering effects of various substances, whether they be wet, dry, grown in the sunshine or concocted by chemists. My interests developed early and never fully departed, even after a stint in rehab back in the 80s where I got me some o’ that old time Anonymous Religion and stayed squeaky clean for quite some time. I don’t have a disease or an addictive-personality. I’m simply spoiled rotten and have never faced any real consequences for my actions. I want to do what I want to do when I want to do it. I’m all about instant gratification and become an emotional two-year old when I hear “no” or “wait” or “not now.” My indulgences, be they chemical, sexual, financial, etc., are all choices and usually based on what feels good at the moment.

I’m not saying I don’t have a problem, I just don’t want to justify, excuse or rationalize my behavior by pretending it’s something I can’t control. I’m impulsive and compulsive, sometimes unbearably, overwhelmingly so. But if I convince myself I can’t help the things I do or that they’re not my fault, all I’m really doing is giving myself permission to shrug, say “Don’t blame me, I’m sick,” and continue making the same bad choices.

Being forgiven and getting away with it (whatever ‘it’ might be) so often and for so long is a bit like gambling and hitting a lucky streak: you feel like you can never lose. And even though it cools you keep feeding the machines all night, believing you’ll get hot again, willing your luck to come back, no longer enjoying the game but desperate and panicked at what you’re losing, have lost, until eventually you stumble out of the casino into the glaring morning sun without enough money for a cab ride back to your hotel or a goddamn cup of coffee.

I’m not going to go into great detail about my assholery over the past couple of years. Suffice to say that much of the shit-pile I’m buried under I brought down upon myself, either directly or indirectly. I am an unpredictable drinker (aside from never getting sick or having hangovers … again, no consequences!) and I’ve hurt, angered and frightened people with my behavior. I’ve been fortunate to have been forgiven or excused more times than I deserve. Sometimes I would wonder just how many times I could inflict my drama and bullshit on people who love and care for me before they said, “Enough!” As it turns out, the answer is one time less than I recently attempted.

I pushed it too far, pushed them, scared them, took them for granted, hurt, angered and disappointed them. This isn’t being defriended on Facebook or acquaintances who no longer wave when you see them on the street. Three people who mean a great deal to me (one who I credit with keeping me sane, and maybe even alive), good people, people who made a difference for me, have had enough and are done. I don’t know if the friendships are permanently over, but I’ve done damage that can’t be repaired and I don’t think things can ever be the same. And I did it, it’s all my fault. I’m responsible.

I knew my actions would cost me eventually, but I never imagined the price would be so dear. Or so devastating.

You Won’t Miss Me. You Are Stupid.

ouch

My dear friend broke up with me last night via Yahoo’s Instant Messenger. She is brilliant, a talented writer with a tender heart and a sharp tongue who is easily hurt by inadvertent slights or snubs, and her reaction to such can be swift and merciless.

One feature of YIM is that it stores conversation histories. This allowed me to go back and relive the destruction of our friendship a number of times today. As I wallowed, I noticed something interesting. If I stripped away my side of the conversation and a few overly-identifying bits, leaving just the raw and relevant things she said in their original order, I couldn’t help but notice a certain structure and flow. Although she’d likely disagree (and being more knowledgeable than I in such areas, would no doubt be right), I find there’s even something poetic in the way she ripped my heart out.

   I’m completely finished with you.
   I am so fucking sick and tired of you
   You are an asshole ultimately.
   You won’t miss me.
   You are a fucking opportunistic ridiculous bitch.
   You attach yourself to people because you are uninteresting.
   Because you are a denying cunt.
   Because you are a fucking crow. “Ooh! Shiny!”
   Fuck you.
   You are stupid.
   So fuck you.
   I’m so over you it’s ridiculous.
   I just think you are a jackass.
   Dumbass.
   Everyone knows you are a stupid jerk.
   You are the cause.
   You are vindictive.
   You are an ass kisser.
   You are so cavalier.
   Fuck you.
   Spare me your drama.
   Fuck off.
   Goodbye.

Fuck Off

To the uninitiated the words sound harsh, and I supposed they are. But as one of those who enjoyed riding the Tilt-A-Whirl of being her friend, I can’t help but grin and think how classic her it is. I will miss her and think of her often, and while it’s not a sentimental declaration of everything we ever meant to each other, at least she left me this poem to remember her by.

And that makes me smile.