Last night my sister called me in a panic because my mother was acting funny again. I use the word “again” because she has a tendency to medicate using substances that have unusual side effects. These prescriptions she takes to help her sleep are all doled out by professionals, so she’s not a drug user or anything. Still, on more than one occasion she’s definitely done some really weird, far out shit, which if she were a writer would be more than worthy of her own Les paradis artificiels. She could probably write much better than I could about being under the influence of powerful analgesics, benzodiazepines and hypnotics. Of course, she is the last person in the world who would boast about such feats, even as I scour the mean streets of Los Angeles for a taste of whatever she’s been taking that leads her to compulsively clean her house — naked — in the middle of the night, have conversations with a particular set of blinds, or unconsciously cook up some of the foulest dishes in the history of the culinary arts. The closest I got was that time I took some Restoril with friends in college and played the who-can-stay-awake-longest game. Ambien never worked quite the same way for me…
Anyway, inspired by my mother’s most recent attempt to reach what Baudelaire once referred to as “the ideal world,” here is another installment from my own drug diaries, which I have taken to calling Artificial Artificial Paradises. Because four or five years ago Zoya told me I should make my blog entirely about intoxicated musings. I was intoxicated a lot, I suppose. Maybe I just mused a lot. The point is, I used to fancy myself a young Baudelaire, or Thomas deQuincy, or maybe just a Jimmy Chamberlain. The only difference was that I lacked insight into the human condition, had no idea what pills I was taking most of the time, and I had a penchant for using eight paragraphs to describe a chocolate chip cookie or a blow job. Five years later, it’s a guilty reading pleasure. Enjoy!
September 22nd, 2004
Hardy Hi-o Ho, Ho!on tuesday nights i already feel like the week is over. you’ve got your monday, that’s the first day of the week, then, you’ve got your tuesday. i have two classes on tusesday. on wednesday i’ve got two more classes, but then i’ve only got one on thursday, and none on friday. so by tuesday night it’s like, why not get really high? what do i have to look forward to?
nothing. that’s what.
i don’t ever have to look forward to anything ever again for as long as i live.
last weekend i went home for a few days. on wednesday night elissa and i watched tv and talked for like 4 hours, which is something we never do. i don’t know what we talked about because every ten minutes she was like, “smoke more pot – it makes you funny!” so i made a nice dent in the quarter. on thursday i just hung around my mom’s house. she’s leaving for china or something until october. who the fuck can keep track. she’s like a backpacker with a water bottle or something. roaming the outback. she’s like a kid at uvm who used to longboard everywhere and smelled really bad. she has long hair too.
i kind of stopped eating again. lost weight. whoops. so far this week i’ve eaten 6 bagels and nothing else. maybe an egg or two. maybe tomorrow i’ll “make” “dinner”. heat a frozen pizza or something. what’s the use. a bagel sounds good too.
i sort of miss water music.
how fucking gay is that?
send me money.
for food, a tee shirt or two, and an amplifier.speaking of which, check this out:
last night i dreamt i fucked a fat girl in a public bathroom.
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