Tag Archives: vicodin

Confessions of an American Vicodin-Eater

What?  It’s already most of the way through November and it’s Thanksgiving next week?  How did this happen!?  CRAZYPANTS.  Amazing how time flies when you’re on palliative narcotics.  Which I’m currently withdrawing from.  Laaaaaaaame.  But at least the broken rib is healed enough that I don’t pass out from pain when I sneeze.  And breathing hurts only a little.  At some point I tried to do a take off on Thomas de Quincey called “Confessions of an American Vicodin-Eater” in which I chronicled all my fevered drug dreams in a posh late eighteenth century voice.  I only got two paragraphs in before the enterprise was abandoned because, you know, one’s motivation is not at its peak when on pain-relieving depressants.  Bummer because my unconscious was like Exploding Jungian Theater every night.  (The nightmares: I am trapped between the living and the dead.  I am trespassing on lost places I used to love and getting in trouble with the authorities.  I am always losing my teeth, or bleeding from somewhere.  I wake up to find that I am still asleep and wake up again to find that I am still asleep, thus in an infinite loop so that when I finally do wake up, I am not entirely certain that I am not still asleep.  I dream of babies and wounded birds and tiny fetal animals that fit in the palm of my hand, small vulnerable things that are easily destroyed.  The water is so icy and the shock of it when it penetrates my lungs makes me gasp and draw more of it in I am the wreck Titanic the wreck Titanic the wreck Titanic)–yeah, it was like that.  I might have also written a couple of ill-advised missives displaying atrocious vulnerability to certain individuals while in the more maudlin throes of chasing the dragon.  Seriously, kids, drugs are bad.  Don’t do drugs.

Somewhere in there, I wrote a short story about perfume noses that my agent liked, so it will probably be submitted after another round of revision.  Must get back to the novel though.  Good God, the nights are long all of a sudden.

It ends in a maudlin display, as promised.

Helloooooo fine people.

This here is the first blog post I am writing totally wasted.  Let’s see what happens.  I pulled a muscle in my chest, which I truly don’t advise, because it hurts when you breathe, which is, like, you know, most of the time.   Anyway, the nice people at Kaiser put me on Vicodin.  I have not been awake for more than 30 minutes at a time since Sunday morning.  Even my cats are impressed at my newly found marathon sleeping abilities.  Also, a warning: being high makes me maudlin.  I apologize in advance for what may come out of me before the end of this post.  (Yesterday I asked a friend, all dreamy-eyed, what he is like when he is in love.  Seriously, I am dangerous.)

I had an awesome reading at Lit Crawl on Saturday night, before I was felled by the Gods.  It was great fun; the room was packed and attentive, and they applauded me with gusto.  An author’s dream, which contrasts beautifully with those readings one occasionally has to give at bookstores to like one employee and one old lady with a broken hearing aid.

AND…  I have smashing news.  Drum roll…  The story I had performed at Sacramento’s Stories on Stage, “Commuting,” sold to Zyzzyva.  Awesomepants, no?  I do not yet know what issue it will be in, but will of course keep you posted so that you can all run out and buy it and then run through the streets proclaiming the transcendent benefits of my prose.

Damn, I am so wasted.

I have to go back to sleep momentarily.  But, it seems unsportsmanlike to leave you without the maudlin display promised earlier.  So, I will say, I very much like what is happening in this country right now.

I missed you, America.  I love you, America.  I believe in you, America.  Be your promise.  Rise.