Barack Oboyfriend’s and My 4-Year Anniversary, Part 1 – Pills, Blobs, and Vice Presidents


This is not an entry about the election, but rather the election season. Let me first just urge you to Vote! (Ladies, if it gives you a little more incentive, cute guys are always at the voting places! That’s why I vote anyway).

Anyway, like many of my kind, I was prescribed benzodiazepines for the debilitating anxiety I experienced pretty much every day when I was still drinking. The fright caused by an anxiety attack cannot be overstated. People throw it around very liberally, “I was sooo scared! I totally had an anxiety attack!”. I’m like, “Oh really? Did they lock you up against your will in the nut-house for it, too?”. So many people have similar stories about hang-over anxiety attacks that landed them in the ER. The first ER I went to just wouldn’t let me leave. They sent me to a glorified drunk tank (plants, sunshine, yoga, WHATever) for alkies and other colorful people with good insurance, a safe place for them to stay while they waited to go to some treatment facility, which was out of the question for me. Why the hell would they treat a heart attack at a rehab? I went to the ER because I was dying, not for whatever it was they were insinuating I had. I truly had no idea what I was doing there and was none too pleased about it. Ooo I was so pissed at my doctor. I got out of the hospital and called him immediately (immediately after finishing the lemon juice and vodka, that is – I was into lemondrops at the time) to scream at him. He screamed back that I am an alcoholic. I was stunned! What did he just say to ME?! I fired him that minute. The nerve on that quack – how dare! But that’s an entirely different story altogether.

I became fond of benzos. Some doctors, as you may know, over-prescribe benzos. I ate so many and still had plenty on reserve, and got into the alarmingly dangerous habit of occasionally taking way too many at once. I wasn’t trying to kill myself – it was just this kooky compulsion. So, one day, four years ago, I went with that compulsion, and woke up (luckily!) with this dull pain in my abdomen and a squishy blob so big I could feel it under my skin. I was like, “Ah shit. I’ve gone and done it this time!”. I went to the doctor… a month later. It’s funny in a sad and troubling way that, looking back, I panicked because I thought I caused physical damage from Ativan, but it never crossed my mind that I could have done any physical damage from alcohol. Denial may have spared me further anxiety – it served a purpose whether right or wrong, it was neither here nor there – that’s just how I rolled, homies. I was tempting death without realizing it, but, no worries, my body was just fine! Except for the shaking. And the vertigo. And the anxiety. And the hallucinations. Oh I Googled “brain damage” a zillion times – there was undeniably something very wrong with my brains in the clarity and perception departments – they were brittle and shaky to such distraction. There must be a reason for this condition. But what is it? What is it? What ever could it be!

Back to le lump… so, I finally took a couple of Ativan and went to the doctor and had a bunch of tests done. It turned out I had a Goodyear Blimp-sized cyst on my ovary. They remove cysts when they’re over 4cm and mine was 11cm. I do everything BIG! (<– said with jazz hands). So, they scheduled surgery for the next week or so. I wasn’t in pain – just grossed out that I had a grapefruit-sized cyst hanging off my grape-sized ovary. It’s all about fruit. But then the cyst, she twisted. PAIN. I was delirious with pain. I was in so much pain I didn’t know what to do and couldn’t figure out how to get to the ER or if I should even go to the ER, so I decided to pass out on the bathroom floor and worry about it later. Luckily again, I woke up in the morning and went right to the hospital. This was the day of the Sarah Palin – Joe Biden debate….

I spent the better part of that day delighting in a steady stream of morphine, tripping from Starlight to Moonville, on a rocket to The Fourth Dimension (name that musical). Surgery was moved up a few days, I was sent home with a pile of Percocet, and I made an ill-advised but predictable stop at the liquor store. At that time, exactly four years ago, there’s no way I could have watched 90 minutes of winking “you betcha!”s without being drugged, so I guess the twisted cyst had good timing. Now, I am having an extraordinarily hard time putting into words how I feel about Mrs. Palin without being judgmental. I had a visceral reaction to her, as many did, but my main horror was this: she’s AQUARIUS! Why oh why oh why oh why??? We’re supposed to be peaceful and humanitarian, unwavering in our demand for fairness and famous for our open-mindedness. Anyway, I don’t even remember that debate. What happened? Was it good? Four years later, another vice presidential debate. Again, my other boyfriend Joe Biden takes to the stage. This time I am cold stone sober as he debates Mr. Eyes Without a Face, who is also… AQUARIUS! At least these two didn’t get elected (see what I did there?). You know who else is Aquarius? DICK CHENEY! But so is Abraham Lincoln. Nelissa and I are also Aquarius, and we are both gentle and sensitive and patient. OK, I can’t say that with a straight face. Nelissa is these things – I’m working on it. Funny, I visited my friend “Dandelion” the other day, and she reminded me of the first time we hung out and exchanged phone numbers. The first text I sent her I threatened to kill her over my imaginary boyfriend – she showed me the text – she was not telling tales. I was totally kidding, of course, but she was skeptical, afraid I was a psychopath, and not the peaceful and gentle Aquarius I am meant to be, and that my cats can prove I am!

But back to planets and outer space, Aquarius are meant to be just wonderful astronauts. I think maybe I’ll mail a couple of astronaut school applications to some of the aforementioned vice presidential candidates. They can take a marvelous trip to the stars, take a break from Earth for a while. It will suit their Aquarian love of adventure.

Stay tuned for Part 2…


A Splash of Cute Sarcasm


I have a friend, as yet unnamed, who does not think hostility and sarcasm are attractive at all, ever. I’m like, “Never?? Not even in some situations sometimes??” And he’s like “NO. End of story”. Unfortunately, he’s like sodium pentothal in human form to me, so when we talk, I’m all “BLAH hostility BLAH sarcasm BLAH hostility BLAH sarcasm”.. BLAAAAH = unattractive. To be fair to myself, I normally channel my hostility inward, and what spills over is usually just some cute anger. But I’m not like that all the time! Usually I’m pleasant, not recently, but more often than not, I think – I could be totally wrong. I’m so unsure of myself these days. Also, self-deprecation, says my friend as yet unnamed, is unhealthy. In other words, I’m fucked. Another friend “HI5Oh” calls me out when I hyperbolize, which is clearly all the time. Well hell! I call them like I see them… and then add a splash of color for whimsy and entertainment purposes. Like that time I realized I knew the Antichrist, I was like, “I know the Antichrist!!!”. Who can argue that I don’t? How would they know? I’ll tell you who: HI5Oh. He argues everything. “You’re telling me you know the incarnation of evil, the Beast who shall destroy God?”.
“Are they bald, partially maimed, and partially deaf?.
“Not yet, but they’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’”, as Dad would say.
And then I felt really bad. This person is sick and suffering – they’re not the Antichrist. Some are sicker than others. Much sicker sometimes. It’s just funnier to call them the Antichrist… I think – I could be totally wrong. I have this notion that if you’d call that person a “chump” or “Antichrist” or whatever to their face, then you’re not being mean – you’re speaking your truth and this is a program of honesty after all, right? But then it was pointed out to me that that is the definition of mean. And since it is unanimously and monumentally suggested that I be kind and compassionate to achieve maximum recovery (I should write weight loss infomercials), I have no choice but to muzzle my inner Siskel and Ebert. I comfort myself with the fact that no one can actually hear my inner Critics Corner AND.. bonus! – I don’t need to make amends for the mean stuff I think! So there.

So, here’s what we currently have, kids. In my truly earnest and honest-to-God pilgrimage to Love and recovery, I need to work on snuffing out my hostility, sarcasm, and judgment, and reigning in the hyperbole. There goes the blog! RIP, sweet Slushkitty!! Actually, the one who gets the crap kicked out them the most is yours truly, by yours truly. I really am trying to understand why I hate mankind so much and it is making me quite literally insane. PLUS I was born without a Poker Face. I really don’t know if it is a blessing or a curse. For example, when you tell me, as you do so often, that I am stunning simply stunning, the prettiest lady in church basements, the delight and gratitude in my glittering brown eyes and the sparkle in my modest and winning smile reflect a sincerity and beauty rarely seen on God’s green earth. On the other hand, if I want to kick you so hard in the shins, you’ll know simply by being within half a mile of me. I don’t have to say a word. My demonic scowl says it all. People are on to me now and I don’t like it. I am working on it though – working on not having such extreme emotions that a Poker Face is even necessary. Some day I’ll be able to thoughtfully ponder and come to understand and calmly articulate what’s making me uncomfortable or angry or whatnot, and not have to resort to dramatically and loudly falling off my chair while flailing and making the universal distress sign of choking. I’m all about self-improvement and trying to live in a “kinder and gentler way” –or whatever – these days. If you have any suggestions for me on how to do this, please, I value your wisdom. I might find some way to turn your good intentions into a personal attack on me. But please go ahead and tell me anyway! It’ll be good practice! I’m on my 4th step. I’ll just add you to my resentment list and then will come to realize I’m an even bigger asshole than I thought. HA!!!! That was a funny joke! A little 12-step humor! My kinder and gentler way is to laugh at my own jokes, which I actually hear is a faux pas in some social circles but so is passing out in broad daylight with 30 lbs. of tomatoes and a case of beer, but that never stopped me!

The truth is that I feel like I have been living in the Twilight Zone for the past few weeks. This horror show at work was so bizarre, some people’s reactions were so bizarre. I’ve been starring as the victim and victor in my own Alternate Reality Show, though I never really was either victim or victor. Oh fuck that – I was totally victimized. I have a lot of processing to do around this but this much is clear: I did my best, I have the best friends in the world, and I gained a valuable piece of information: If you ever have the terrible terrible misfortune of having to repeatedly say “blowjob” to your HR person and you have a hard time keeping a straight face, I strongly suggest crying over laughing. It’s much more appropriate. And it is no laughing matter anyway. I did cry, it was mortifying. However, I’m really going to have a hard time keeping a straight face when I see her from now on. Because it’s kind of funny.. when you think about it.

A Quick Stroll Up Booze Boulevard


Been a while.. how’s it going? I have been completely miserable and uninspired, and I have not been in the mood to ruin your day. Slushkitty! Guaranteed to depress you! Because, you know, it’s all about me and my suggestive and seductive mood-altering mind-control. Meow. I’ve been going through something so awful at work that I have spent the past four days clawing myself away from bars and liquor stores. I have been sober for 1.5 years and only twice could I have killed myself for a drink – suffering such crushing emotional despair that numbing myself, even knowing the consequences, seemed the most humane option. I live a straight 15-minute shot up West Broadway, which shall now be referred to as “Booze Boulevard”. During the first two attacks, I called every friend in the program until I got a hold of a live one – ha! I just remembered, I actually got a hold of my BFF Celery and told her I wanted to drink so badly I was homicidal and these Southie skanks better watch their fucking manners or they’ll have hell to pay, to which she lovingly and abrasively, like only a normal drinker can, screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you?! After all this time?!”. Anyway, sweet Celery stayed on the phone with me as I zig-zagged my way, crossing the street at almost every corner so I wouldn’t have to walk past a bar or a liquor store, until I made it home sweet home. This Friday, you betcha I zig-zagged up Booze Blvd. alrighty, but counterclockwise. I walked slooooooowly by every bar, surveying the scenes, asking myself logical questions – I wonder if they have cocaine? It’s been 1.5 years – that’s sort of like “never”, as in “never come back here again!” In my defense, .. I have no defense. But they probably don’t remember me anyway… right? I walked past the liquor stores remembering that they deliver! I don’t have to decide right now! I didn’t drink. Anyway, I think these past few weeks have been the worst few weeks of my sobriety – drinking crossed/bulldozed by mind starting on Friday and stopped… today maybe? I am not going to drink today. I’ll be fine. My darling angel Bambie is celebrating two years tomorrow and asked me to present her with her medallion on Friday. I am so delighted and honored and excited! I am so so happy for you, Bambie! I need my eyes to be as bright as yours. If I can’t muster the love for myself to stay sober, I can certainly love you most to stay sober. You dig, kittycat?