Category Archives: Drugs

A Tale of Charles Manson: Marriage & Manipulation

The internet erupted after learning Charles Manson, 80, was granted a license to marry 26-year-old Afton Elaine Burton, who prefers the name “Star,” because Manson says she’s a “Star in the Milky Way.”
A mousy young woman, Star looks eerily similar to one of Manson’s most fanatical murderous followers, Susan “Sadie Mae” Atkins.
Not eligible to apply for parole again until he’s 92 in 2027, Charles Manson is arguably among the world’s most famous prisoners, and by rights shouldn’t be alive for his present-day notoriety. Sentenced to death in ‘71 with four followers, they lucked out when California’s death penalty was nixed in 1972. Those on Death Row were given a stay of execution and death sentences commuted to life in prison. Within six years, death was back on the books and is still in effect today, but Manson and his “Family” stayed blessed with the gift of life behind bars.
Marriage, some argue, is a basic human right. I would agree, and have long supported that premise in support of LGBTQ seeking marriage rights. But you need to be human before you deserve basic human rights, and Manson is far from.
To understand why some are so outraged about this “right” being extended to Charles Manson, we need to start at the beginning.

The Formative Years

Manson’s criminality and depravity began young. Born to a partying teen mom who’d get in trouble with the law later, Charlie grew up fascinated with guns, smitten with stealing, and constantly in trouble with authorities. By 13, he ran away from Boy’s Town, where it’d been hoped he’d find a better path. His would be a life of reform schools and prison then on.
READ THE REST over at the Vancouver Observer. Click here.

Depression isn't a CHOICE, People.

This post was in response to something that has now been removed from the web. The author of the original post, Mary Rose, in comments below has asked that this similarly get removed. While I understand why she thinks post is “hateful,” I respectfully disagree — this is an angry post, and anger was an understandable reaction to what was originally written, from my perspective.
I’m also of the belief that we NEED discussion about these things, and Mary Rose isn’t the first person to maybe be a little quick-worded in writing about something daunting like depression, and therefore I will not be removing this post.
This post should be seen as a snapshot of what someone’s mental process is after reacting to something they take the wrong way.
Anger isn’t hate. It’s a justifiable emotion, and, yeah, I was angry when I wrote this. It doesn’t mean I wish Mary Rose harm, or that I disrespect HER. I took issue with her words, and that’s clear here, I felt. The comments are where to disagree with me, of course.
Times like this are when we learn what kind of reach our language choices have — and LOTS of people are guilty of telling people to cheer up when depressed, whether they mean it as flippantly as it sounds, or not, and it’s to ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE this posting is directed. Thanks for reading.

***

So, I started my Saturday wanting to drop-kick someone for a post they wrote in which they asserted depression was a choice and one could just happily choose to move on.
Know how I know someone’s never experienced REAL depression?
When they tell you to move on, to “choose” a better attitude, to buck up and deal. C’mon, everybody! GET HAPPY! Let’s watch the Partridge Family and have a love-in!
Here’s an image for you. Tortured guy goes through life dealing with endless depression, finally decides being unhappy to his very core is literally too painful to endure anymore, and kills himself. Let’s say there is a St. Peter and some Pearly Gates. Suicided Dude shows up there, and St. Pete goes, “What the hell are you doing? You coulda just CHOSEN to stop being depressed. Wow. Waste of life there, selfish dick.”
And Suicided Dude’s jaw drops, and he goes, “WHAT? I coulda JUST STOPPED being depressed? Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me it was like putting on pants? JUST DON’T DO IT? Who knew? Aw, man. Don’t I feel like a dumbass. The next 40 years mighta ROCKED.”
Right. Sounds pretty fucking dumb, doesn’t it?
That’s never gonna happen. Why?
BECAUSE DEPRESSION ISN’T A CHOICE.
Here’s what Hippy Guru Writer says about “leaving depression behind” in this blog post:

Depression is manifested anger and fear. An extension of the above. Take Usana multivitamins, Univera cell renewal, and exercise for fun. Do it alone if you feel like everyone thinks you’re a loser. Get out of your stale mindset. Enjoy the space inside of yourself and tell the demons inside that they are not welcome there anymore. Tell the part of you that doesn’t believe in you that while you appreciate its special, non verbal brand of tough love, you’re renting all the space inside of you out to new tenants. These new tenants are all the magnificent, hidden, scared, doubtful parts of you that have been beaten down by the giant called depression. Tell it to leave you now. You do not need it to sit on your face anymore.

MULTI-VITAMINS? Really? 30 push-ups? Insta-glee? “Yo, demons! Get outta my space! Hasta la sayonara, BADDY!” What the fuck?
I’d just tell her to fuck off but she’d tell me I’m manifesting my anger and fear. Which, actually, I kind of am.
Namaste. Hakuna matata. Awimbaway!

Image 'Depression' by David Baldinger. Source: http://www.dbaldinger.com/drawings/depression.html. Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Generic


Here’s the deal. I’ve been down the depression road and back again. In my descents into darkness, there are a few things I’ve gleaned to be true.
(Reminder: I’m some chick sitting cross-legged on the floor in boxers as I write this, and not a trained professional who bled money for a degree to learn about psychotherapy. Mm-kay?)
Anyhoo. I’ve learned there seems to be both SITUATIONAL and BIOLOGICAL depressions. Now, situational is when it kinda makes sense that you’re down over a long period of time.
Maybe you’ve lost a job, got dumped, shattered your leg when skiing, have creditors chasing you down and no prospects, or maybe you had your mother die. Whatever. Being depressed then not only makes sense, it’s part of being human, and it’s a necessary journey for our growth. It’s not a DEFECT to be ignored and leap-frogged over, it’s a natural situational depression that means our soul’s hurting a little. It may be treated with chemicals, diet, and/or exercise, and that can take the edge off and make fighting one’s way back easier. It still takes a long time to do right.
Biological depressional, however, is a total beast and the reason why it can lead to suicide is because your chemistry overtakes logic, emotion, and everything else. It’s being under a black cloth and not knowing how to find your way out. At its darkest, it is a living hell that isolates you from your dreams, family, friends, and every aspect of your life. Your anger and hopelessness catastrophically cut you off from everything and everyone.
The most insidious part of depression is how it can take over and you’re so incredibly in the dark you don’t even realize it’s an illness. It’s been nearly 6 years since a chemical depression brought me to the brink of suicide, thanks to bad-ass birth control pills I was on that caused an imbalance in me.
The idea of that EVER happening again is terrifying because I had absolutely no control over this darkness that was consuming me for the first 4 months. It was a horrifying descent to the brink of madness for me, and I thank my lucky stars I got past it.
But then assholes like this Hippy Guru Writer come along, who think they’re being helpful for depressed people by going, “Come on, Skippy! You can do it! Just a little hill, and we’ll have climbed right on outta Unhappyville, boys and girls! YAY, HAPPY-CHOICE TIME!”
And do you know what that does to someone who’s actually clinically, biologically depressed? It increases the self-loathing, hopelessness, and frustration, because they remember the 287 times they have gone to bed at night telling themselves it would be better in the morning, promising that they would get up, “do everything right” and have a great day. Then, they get up, a trigger happens, and they’re fighting tears and hyperventilating, just because work beckons in 45 minutes and they need to “pretend” again.
So, on behalf of everyone who’s currently being crushed by depression, I’d like to tell you to fuck right off if you think you’re a part of the solution by telling someone to “get a grip” and move on. They don’t have the objectivity to do it for themselves, thanks to people like you and whatever chemistry’s at fault.
Luckily, I’ve fought depression on both the chemical and situational fronts, and I can tell you it’s as different as summer and winter. In my situational depressions, occasionally things transpire that I find fun and enjoyable, I might even have a whole day or week that’s good, and those are the natural highs/lows of a system that’s functioning properly despite suffering a recent blow the mind needs to heal from.
In my one chemical-based depression based in imbalance, it got darker and darker so that no light entered my life at all. I tried to think my way out of it, do things to cheer myself up, but it often backfired and became worse because it meant I really TRIED, only to FAIL AGAIN, so it perpetuated the feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness that define true depression.
Of course, being unable to “cheer” myself up then had nothing to do with failure at all — that was the nature of the illness. It took two years to undo, but I did it — with the help of medication, exercise, diet, and great friends around me. There was no one cure. There usually isn’t.
The last year and a bit, I’ve been in a mild situational depression because I knew I was unhappy, and I couldn’t figure out what part of my life was the problem. But that’s not actually a situational depression — it’s just being plain old unhappy, indicating change is needed.
I can’t tell you how many times I tried to “think” myself out of my situational grumpiness, either. There are times when thinking one’s self out of a mood works, but when there are actual causes and those causes haven’t been mitigated, choosing “happy” isn’t usually enough. Sometimes, you actually need to change a lot in your life, and that’s not always an option — especially not in this economy, which has given a lot of people reason to be depressed and scared.
You may think you’re giving depressed people a pep talk, but in actuality, you’re likely part of the problem.
Here’s an idea. Be quiet. Listen. Ask them if they need to talk, and just listen. Sometimes, there are no solutions. Sometimes, it just takes a while of hangin’ on, holdin’ out, and hoping. And most of us do those things in different ways, whether you approve or not.
But if all it took was a decision, they would’ve fucking solved life a while ago. Mm-kay?
Don’t just get off your high horse, shoot it. Please.

RIP, David Foster Wallace:Some Thoughts on Suicide & Depression

David Foster Wallace committed suicide this weekend. 46. Hung himself.
The guy had made a career out of being brilliantly insightful and funny. Yet he somehow ended up on the dark side from which suicide seems the only out.
I’ve tried to write about depression over the last couple of years, because I know a fair bit about what it feels like to be on the wrong side of it. I’ve lived with others who’ve been suicidal. I understand depression in a whole slew of ways.
I’m on the other side of it these days, and think I’ll stay on the other side a while yet. I still struggle with being all happy-sunshiney, because, let’s face it, that works for demure screen sirens of old, but for the rest of us on Planet Earth in the here-and-now, happiness not some ubiquitous state we tap into with the flick of a finger or a “Hey, I know!” notion in the morning, as much as Dale Carnegie wants you to believe happiness is always a choice.
Even now, the quasi-adversities that pepper my life temper my glee-factor something fierce, but that’s humanity for you. I’m in touch with my moody glory. I can often think my way into better moods, though, as much as I like to mock the notion.
I mock it because depression is when the ability for levity and “opting out” of moods takes its leave.
“Real” depression is a whole ‘nother beast than the “normal” depression. I can shake my depressions these days because they’re just that: normal. I know it might all be better again tomorrow. I know bad days are just part of the mix, just like finding surprise bad produce in the midst of your seemingly selectively-chosen product when you get home from the veggie store. Shit happens.
But not to severely depressed people. Even trying to “think” your way out of it doesn’t work. I wrote this posting on August 15th, 2006. What you don’t see is, that even though I talked a good game on the night of the 15th, the 16th became the first and only time in my life that suicide seemed like a good choice. There was a point in the day when I came apart. I came wholly apart. I worked alone in my office that day and had a complete breakdown to the point that I had an “emergency” call placed to me by my old therapist I hadn’t spoken to in years. A 45-minute conversation talked me down from that fever-pitch of suicidal thoughts, and things were a little better in the morning.
I remember that blackness now, and even thinking about how I got to be from the person I loved earlier that year to the woman I was that day just sends shivers up me still. Because I know, as much as I loathe the easy way out that suicide is, as much as I pride myself on taking on any challenge and usually winning… I know I was ready to give it all up. And I have no idea how I got to that point.
That’s the terrifying thing about depression. When you’re no longer yourself, how can you possibly act in ways that are right for you? When you have no logic, how do you make the logical choice?
Depression isn’t something that occurs to the weak. I’m here to fucking tell you I know more about “surviving” than most people of my age, and I almost didn’t survive my depression, despite having survived so much else in my life.
(As I’ve said in the past: My suicidal depression was as a result of trying to suppress my period through birth control pills. I’m not sure I will ever take birth control again. I still recommend it for the average woman, but believe me I do so with massive caveat emptor attached. However, my life went off the rails at the same time, for what was pretty much the existential “perfect storm”, and perhaps the hormones were just the straw on the existential camel’s back.)
Weak is not a word people ever, ever, ever describe me as in real life. Not in any definition of the word.
Yet somehow the stigma of depression = weakness endures. It’s why I’m so hell-bent on writing about it, because *I* have no stigma about the depressions I’ve had. Why should I?
And someone like David Foster Wallace just inexplicably disappears from the planet one day because he’s committed suicide. Was he depressed? Probably. Maybe we’ll find out. Either way, William Styron’s incredible Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness is something I think any moody creative type should read. The look that brilliant novelist takes at his own suicidal depression and the links he explores, believing his suicidal tendencies perhaps had to do with his creative nature, is something that has stayed with me over the years.
I’m obviously a highly introspective writer. I do it well, it’s my schtick. That said, there are dark and dingy places in the recesses of my mind that require stoicism and fearlessness, but particularly tempering, before I go trekking through them, and I find it healthy to remember just how much toying with the shadows of our psyche can unsettle us at times.
Styron quoted the book of Job from the Bible in the opening of Darkness Visible, and it’s something that anyone who has truly, truly endured depression can understand.

“For the thing I greatly fear is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.”

~The Book of Job

In depression, the trouble always comes.
Because, when you’re depressed, being around life itself reminds you of everything you once had and feel has now become lost to you. It’s the inability to connect your reality with what your perception is, no matter how much you may be aware that it’s your perspective that’s the problem. It’s like looking at life through a cracked, distorted mirror. No matter how you try to defragment the view, it’s your perception and not the image that is broken.
Depression makes no sense. Suicide can never be understood. Unless, for the briefest of moments, it once seemed to make sense to you.
And even though I had that moment of clarity when “out” seemed better than “in”, I still don’t understand the choice of suicide. I don’t understand how life can make death seem appealing. I don’t understand having the courageous mix of fear and foolishness required to take that easy, all-too-permanent out, since all I had was the notion and not yet the motivation to make it so.
All I really understand about depression is that it’s not about weakness. It’s about something that we as a race still don’t understand, and we still can’t control. But we can at least try to talk about it. We can help remove the stigma that comes with a diagnosis of depression or mood disorders. We can make it easier for people, however brilliant and famous they are, to admit they’re powerless over this thing that’s come from the shadows only to choke all the light.
All I really understand is that it’s a crime, in this age of information and knowledge, that such rampant ignorance and judgment still exists regarding depression.
Because it’s why people like David Foster Wallace often think a rope over a rafter or a bullet in the head is easier than trying to end that chokehold of darkness over their light.

The Bi-Monthly Friday-Night Bottle-of-Red Requisite Posting

In vino veritas.
The price of truth, it seems, runs $9.99 per 750 mils. Yum.
I’ve recently cut out my crack-like addiction to the tasty, chewy, buttery, vanilla-y Rice Krispie squares from the market down the street. That, coupled with yoga and a few more veggies in my diet as well as weight-lifting, and I’m noticing (just as of tonight) some new toning in my midsection. Like, what? I have rib bones? Who knew? Continue reading

In Vino Veritas: Lord Help Me

So, I’m doing my hump day in brilliant fashion. I’m drunk. Like, flat-out, I’m a 1/2 glass from the bottom of my bottle of Sicilian red wine. Mm, mm, good. Yeah.
What can I say? I was working on a tv show about red wine this afternoon, and I thought, “That sounds good. Sure.” So, that and a 440-calorie deluxe mini-pizza and I’m just as happy as can be. Albeit somewhat wobbly.
Because I’m drunk, heh heh, and happy about it, and in vino veritas, and all that, I’m going to take a moment to not really apologize, but maybe clear the air or something here.
I have been short-tempered of late, probably pretty much clear throughout my life. It has been odd and strange to be on my end of it, because I’m not sure where it comes from. One word springs to mind: hormones.
Two weeks ago, I visited my doctor and said, “You know, I think it’s time I got off the meds.”
If you’re new to this blog, fuck, well, the story’s too long to indoctrinate ya now, but suffice to say my longtime readers know I’ve been on quite the ride the last couple of years, but given that I heavily edit this blog and temper it from my real life, all y’all don’t know jack. Really.
So, long story short, I lost my nut two years ago when birth control pills fucked me up more than I ever could have dreamed. I still think birth control pills are an important tool, and that my experience is probably the exception to the rule, but that, if you do decide to use the pill (and I’d approve that choice, with condoms), you got to monitor your moods and tell those closest to you to help keep you objective about how you’re reacting to life, because I tripped the wire, man. I really tripped the wire.
I am telling you this: I have lost my mother, who was THE most important person to me, after caring for her before her death; I have survived nearly a decade of chronic pain; I have survived nearly dying on a severely injuring motorbike accident… and I have never, ever endured the darkness I endured two summers ago. I couldn’t have written about the darkness I was in. You didn’t want to read that, I certainly didn’t want to actualize it on the page. I couldn’t talk about it. I kept trying to talk myself out of it; intellectually I knew my life wasn’t that bad, so what was it?
The further I get from it, the more I realize it had to be the pills.
So, back to the present. I’ve lost almost 50 pounds, the good old-fashioned way. I’ve not used trainers or clubs or organizations, and I haven’t even had a gym membership. But I’ve gotten it done. I’ve redecorated my place, tackled my debt…
But then in the last couple of months, though I’ve intellectually felt like I’m going someplace awesome, my emotions were just always a little too much on edge for all I KNOW I have accomplished.
So, I chatted with the doc. Because, you know, us women and hormones, man, it’s a delicate dance. I started wondering if maybe it was time to end the anti-depressants, since they’d clearly done their job.
Now, the doc only found out about 3 weeks ago I’d lost 35 pounds, so this 40-pushing-50 thing is news all the better. So, I show up for the appointment, tell him maybe it’s time I move on. He looks at me and goes, “Steff, depressed people don’t lose 40 pounds, and they’re not really into redecorating much. I think maybe, yeah, it’s time.”
But truth be told, I hadn’t really thought I’d been that off-kilter until the last couple days. Coincidentally, I just got off the meds Sunday. A couple days and that stuff starts to clear up, like a long fog in the winter. (Though, ironically, I’m all a-tipsy now. 🙂
In the not too distant past, I’ve written a rant about comments, chewed a few people out, you know. Kinda not-too-fuzzy stuff. It’s out of character for me to throw it out there — politically, I’m as shrewd as the fuckin’ day is long, baby, so I don’t tend to put my foot in my mouth all that often.
But it seems of late I have. I think I was expressing my true feelings, but I normally would’ve put a cork in it and just dismissed it as people spouting off when maybe they should’ve done a little self-editing. Then, ironically, I too failed to self-edit. Funny how that works.
Anyhow. This is me saying I’ll behave more. I’m not saying I’m sorry, ‘cos maybe we all should blow a fuse now and then and get that shit off our chests… heh, after four years of blogging, it was about time I ranted about comments. Hah. It’s like parental advice — sooner or later you just gotta speak your piece.
But I could have done it better. I could have been nicer. Hell, I should have. One thing I’ve never claimed to be is perfect. And I’ve always loathed hormones. Damn estrogenies. So, you know, older, wiser, and on it rolls. Will. Behave. Better.
All right, so I was a bit of an ass. Yes. True. But I wasn’t entirely incorrect. 🙂

(My theory is, with enough time passing for the birth control pills to finally be irrelevant, my weight loss success, my improved diet, a more relaxing job situation, and improved finances, that my body chemistry has become correct all by itself, but by continuing to be medicated, it’s actually been causing a new imbalance. Strange, huh? But it makes sense to me. Ay yi yi.)

Ixnay the Equilatay, Eh? Second thought, pass the mickey.

Oh, god. I was so wrong about how my night would unfold. I think I’m still drunk.
It was 4:20 pm when I decided to just randomly text GayBoy. Our exchange went like this:

“We should get drunk this weekend.”
“Should we? What do you suggest?”
“I hear alcohol works.”
“People do say that. What type?”
“I’m cooking fish later, you want some? So, big btl wine?”
“I got cider and tequila at home?
“That sounds like trouble. So, you want fish then? If so, bring a baguette.”

So, he brought the baguette, a bocce ball set, a mickey of good tequila, and a six-pack of cider.
“I can’t drink tequila straight!” I argued. “We need to mix it with something.” He dismissed this as the whining of an ignorant child, but provided orange juice in case I really “want(ed) to be a sissy”.
Unbeknownst to me, it turns out that not only can I do the salt-lick/shot/suck-on-lime tequila drinking straight, but I can do it very… very… very well. Like, none of his hissing and teeth-grinding after sucking back a shot. More like, “Oh, that hit the spot. Another?” Continue reading

The Requisite Quarterly Drunken Posting (Hicc)

So, I’m drunk. It’s been forever and a day since I’ve drank and blogged, so you’re owed, dear reader, you’re owed.
Of course, there’s about 60% chance that this posting will suck, but I’ve given you the “I’m drunk” caveat and I’m good if you are. 🙂 Mm, wine!
It’s a cheap and dirty Californian Burgundy. I know, “They have Burgundies in California? It’s a region, you know… Burgundy? Like, in France? Hence the name? Like, French?”
I know, I know. I know. Hey, it’s $6.99. It’s probably one of those proverbial 99-cent bottles of wine from the great Sunshine State. Whatever. It’s all right. I find, sometimes, that life’s just so much simpler if you opt to lower your standards a notch or two, and open your mind. There’s only something wrong if you choose to notice it, right?
So, I says: Fabulous. Tasty, that. I had one of the lofty government liquor store employees recommend me something tasty and light that would work with sauteed salmon. I say it works with getting drunk, that’s what I say.
I decided a second ago that I needed candles and some music, so I’ve opted for Elton John Live in Australia, and lit four candles. And I had a moment… just then. On my quest, I flicked on the light and caught my gaze in a mirror. And this toned, getting tanned face was looking back at me. My face has been lost in an overgrown bad haircut for more than a month… and I’ve lost about 15 pounds in that time. Tonight, wow. It shows. I hadn’t seen that yet, and I cycled 30km today. And to catch myself off-guard, you know?
Maybe you don’t. When you’re in a process of change like I think I’ve been in, just hitting it hard, and working to lose the weight — not relying on a diet plan or something like that to get you through, but sweating hard for six, eight, ten hours a week on top of full-time work, doing the whole “I cook and clean for myself” thing, and maintaining a life, a blog, all that, you get absorbed in life, you know? Months go by when you’re conscious you’re changing a bit, but all it takes is something completely new to enter the picture and you suddenly realize how much change there’s really been from then to now. A haircut shows new face angles you’ve not noticed, or a new outfit betrays new hot curves. Doesn’t take much. But it can blow a mind, baby.
So I’ve had my moment. Sure, I’m drunk, but I hope I remember it. Heh. Or else I get a two-fer and I have the same epiphany when I wake up and get sober. “Holy shit! I’ve lost weight!” Awesome. A two-fer! On a Saturday morning on a four-day long weekend? Fuckin’ a, I’ll take a two-fer. 🙂
Ahh, well. Here’s a promise I make you, readers. I’m stewing on a few heavy, heavy postings. To come in the coming weeks are possibly an entire series devoted to Teen Sex in America Today… or at least my take on it. That will segue into a story or two on the state of AIDS in the world today. I may tackle a sociological story on the demise of the tradition of abdication of femininity of Albanian women who wish to become the clan leaders for their family, a really interesting change in society that’s brought entirely about by media and the new chicks in the spotlight worldwide, an interesting story I’d like to weigh in on.
And, fuck, I can’t forget the long-awaited rise of gay marriage in California, now, can I? More importantly, but less covered, is New York’s decision to start legalizing the recognition of gay marriages performed in states where it is legal. Performing one isn’t legal yet in NY, I don’t think, but they’re opting to legally recognize ones performed elsewhere, so that’s fucking huge, man.
It’s been a really important month in sex and politics, but I’ve sort of needed to take some mental time off.
Tonight, drunk though I be, I feel really, really keen to start tackling some of the harder stuff.
The sex with teenagers thing in America, man, that’s just so depressing, and so very, very scary, and why the mainstream media isn’t covering it more when there’s four months before an election just baffles the fuck out of me. And I’ve been holding back, because when I let go on it, it’s going to be in several back-to-back postings. It’s important. When one in four girls who are 14-16 has an STD under an administration that has pushed abstinence-only education, something NEEDS to be said. 25% of mid-teens are carrying an STD, and it’s not a major issue?
HELLO? Scientists in Antarctica are given condoms on the government dime when sex with coworkers is considered sexual harassment, but kids aren’t taught about condoms in school? Like, what the fuck? Sure, the Wii is fun, but I’d much rather be playing with the cutie from Biology, you know what I’m saying? Can’t get drugs, can’t buy booze, but the bodies are there in the offing? “Duh.”
So, all right, I’ll be tackling that very, very soon. Fuck it, this weekend, even. It’s time, man.
I digress: Before my decision to drink a bottle of red wine (I have a glass in front of me still), I had cycled around much of the fabulous city of Vancouver this evening. About 30k. Gorgeous. It’s the night before a heatwave. In fact, it’s nigh on midnight and all my windows and doors have been open since eight, and it’s hotter now than when I came home. Still, I love me a heatwave and have a notion to do a long, long ride when the bitter hot-hot-hot kicks in tomorrow afternoon, after I scoot around town for the fine fixings for a great weekend from an assortment of farmers’ markets. I can’t afford big things, but I can afford locally-grown organic lettuce and farm-fresh potatoes, and isn’t that something fantastic right there?
I get to babysit a friend’s cat tomorrow night, which is really to say I get to babysit his Wii. My centre of balance is apparently dead centre, says Wii. I rock. Methinks I’m getting drunk again. I mean, if I’m dead centre anyhow, right? I’ll just make sure I move that glass coffee table to a galaxy far, far away…
Fuck, now I want to watch Star Wars and visit galaxies far, far away. Sigh. Great cheap red. I think it’s a hallucinogenic. God knows we loves our hallucinogenics.
My drunk ass needs to be elsewhere. But I feel fantastic! It’s going to be a fun few days. Ahh, cheap red wine, how doth my cheap ass love thee. Expensive red wine I also love, and can appreciate, but I just know how to slum when it’s necessary.
And, believe me… everyone needs to slum it some of the time. It makes the rest of the time feel spectacular. Still, for $6… I bet I feel richer than you right now. It’s good to be me. You have yourselves a fabulous weekend. I might be getting lost in the world a little. Shouldn’t we all?

The Existential Fall-out of just a Little Date

Three or four weeks ago, I had a date I’d been both excited about and worried about. He seemed like a really great, sweet guy with a big brain and a love for life, but I also knew he was overweight, and, personality wise, virtually a carbon copy of an ex I quite liked a couple years back.
The date disappointed me a whole lot of ways, mostly because I wasn’t really myself there and came off a little, I don’t know, bitter and whiney. It was a bad weekend for me, ‘cos it’s when my hand had blown out a little and I couldn’t even hold a fork. Going on a date was the least of my worries, and probably wasn’t wise, but I guess I exuded my stress, and I really hate it when I do that.
I suspect he probably read the stress wrong, and that’s too bad, because it didn’t have much to do with him. Had the date gone well, though, I’m almost certain I would have taken a pass on anything further with him. One, his similarities to my ex included the faults too, and, two, because he was morbidly obese. While I’m still obese, I’m fighting the good fight.
I’ve lost 37 pounds, but have about 50 to go, if I’m being honest. I cannot, I will not, get involved with anyone who does not exercise and who eats and drinks to excess. I would fall into old habits and then the self-loathing would return and I’d be back in the same vicious circle that got me in this jam.
Somewhere on that date, the thought of not wanting to fall into vicious cycles occurred to me, and I began to feel pretty badly about thinking that way about this fellow.
When you’re the person who’s been, you suspect, “decided against” on the basis of your fitness and eating, and you know what it’s like to think, “But you don’t even know me, I’m a fantastic person…” and then the table turns and you’re the person doing the deciding against…
It’s a pretty nasty head trip. I felt like such a hypocrite. Such a nice man. But I’ve fought so hard to lose my weight. I still lose battles against things like chocolate and butter and other delectable things I just love, love, love, and I know my weakness. Because I’m weak, I need someone that’s strong and living the healthy life, too. It sucks to think I’ll have to make the same kinds of judgements that once would hurt me.
But there comes a point on the journey of self, when you’re closer to a newer, better you, a better life, a better outlook, when you have to reevaluate those who are in your life and those who you choose to partner with, because your needs have changed as a person and you’ll need people who can better accommodate those. There’s no sense going into brave new worlds as a person just to find yourself the same old kind of people who enabled you to be that person who’s now in your distant past.
It’s one of the reasons I’m not too keen to get involved with men right now. I know I’m not feeling like myself–too tired, too stressed, too overworked–and the vibes I put out are wrong. I know things will sort out in the next few weeks as my money settles down, work picks up, and I get a handle on my energy levels. Besides, the kind of man I attract will change exponentially in the coming weeks and months.
I know that sounds really arrogant to say, but I don’t think it is. I know I have a lot to offer a man, hell, you know it too. I’ve always been told by the men I’ve been involved with that I’m an awesome girlfriend. Generous, doting, sexual, great cook, funny as hell, all those things. Right now, I don’t exude that. It’s the biggest surprise ever when a guy finds out how much I have to give, because I come across more guarded in life. Less so now, and that’ll continuing to lessen as weeks and months continue to pass.
When life gets hard for me, I do what I call “turtling”. I develop the hard shell, proceed slowly in realms of trust, and become very much an entity of and for myself. It really doesn’t make for being Little Miss Girlfriend. That’s a fault of mine I’ll be fighting to change until the day I die. I do not like my defensiveness and my urge to protect myself and not reach out in hard times. It was bred into me, though, and you know how hard it is to change some of our familial legacies.
So life is still hard for me, very. I may be constantly improving myself and making positive changes, but I still feel like life is as hard as it’s ever been, so my defensive modes are still in place, something I never realized until I had that date a couple weeks back.
Now it’s yet another thing I need to start working to consciously improve. Welcome to life, hey?
I still haven’t figured out that date yet. There was just such a strange swirl of headtrippings for me, everything from old hand issues and the emotional baggage that came with, to a very sudden realization at the end of a two block walk that left my companion huffing and puffing, and flashbacks of me having been a huff-puff girl, but knowing I’m so not her anymore, and never want to be again.
I have another date next week, but you know how things change. I’m amused that it’s with someone who doesn’t even live in town, and being the psychoanalytical type I am, I’m thinking “Gee, Steff, what’s this? You’re consciously going after someone you wouldn’t have to see often? Tired of having to actually work in relationships, are you?”
I mean, there’s a whole other way to look at distance relationships, and I’m so fervently opposed to them on principle, that my willingness to try a date out with this fellow just leaves me thinking “What the hell are you thinking?”
But, really, I know: Getting laid intermittently while keeping my me-time. Really. It’s a cop-out and I know it, but I also love it.
Of course, if the date should flop and I’m left to myself and masturbation, that will keep life simple and manageable, too. But if it works out, then who knows. All I know, is, it’s just a date, that’s all.
(This is why we say we’re “keeping things simple” when we don’t date, eh? Geez! 😉

A Detour: Acquisitions

Normally, I tend to write about sex on this blog. At the beginning, though, I had said it would be frequently about sex, but occasionally I might write about something else that was possibly inappropriate for my other blog.
So. This is one of those times. Certain people read my other blog.
Some of us are fortunate enough to have steady, reliable drug dealers. Now, me, I only do dope. I’m mostly well-behaved. Recently, though, I had a stoner concert to attend and thought I should acquire some… inspiration. I found out then that my formerly regular dealer is, get this, on “hiatus.”
“They give you those, do they?” I asked.
“When you ask ’em nicely, yes,” he said.
Deciding that This Concert was worth the effort, I figured, “What the fuck? Let’s see what I can do.”
So, without ado, I decided to negotiate an acquisition on the streets. I headed to Vancouver’s primo chemo district to get me some cheebah. Now, keep in mind, I’ve done this once in my life. I’ve somehow always had connections — a variety thereof. Buying on the street has never been required.
How does one tactfully approach someone and, essentially, ask, “Say, are you a dealer?” Why not just tack onto that, “And hey, I have a family of four that needs killing. You up?”
But this is how you do it. Find a way to observe the street for a few minutes. Walk up it, then down it. Make note of who’s stationary, and better yet, leaning on a wall. Find a way to keep an eye on the scene for a few. Who stays put? Who crosses a sidewalk to talk to someone, then crosses back? Do they use hand gestures? Do they keep looking around, twitching?
Dealers.
Now you walk back towards him/them, and making eye contact, you raise your eyebrows.
That’s it. You’ve done it. Easy as pie. Now: “Holdin’?” “Whatchoo need?” “Weed.” “Yup. How much?” “20.”
Next thing you know, you’re holding two dime bags. Go home. Get happy.