Tag Archives: alcohol

Quote of the Day?

“…I close now with the words of Winston Churchill (probably the greatest drinker of all time): ‘I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.” -Alton Brown; Iron Chef America

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I am a whore [cont’d]

Part I of “I am a whore” can be found by either clicking on the link or scrolling down ever-so-slightly.

So, Tom, dictionary.com and my logic have determined that I’m not, indeed, a whore. Though, to reiteriate, this is only due to the fact that I’m sexually stunted… sort of. To explain, I’m not a virgin or anything… that would be kind of randomly fucked (ha! see what I did there?). However, I’ve never actually had sex while sober. This tends to happen when one is consistently high and/or drunk for 10 years. This brings up the fact that I may not actually remember all of my sexual encounters. So, there’s that, but what can one do in that regard? eh…

By sex, I don’t mean oral or some sort of kiddie ride version of sex… but actual sex. 

On with the story:

In addition, I’ve never had sex with one person more than once. That, in itself, totally sounds: whore! The aforementioned with the exception of Mr Leaving West Hollywood. Whom, you may remember from his brief appearance in American Idiot (the musical) & Me (the liar). And with Mr Leaving West Hollywood, the sex was basically constant, as he is insatiable. But again, it was a very sad sort of pickled-liver alcoholic craziness.*

*wait, not only Mr LWH, possibly (I feel most likely)… lets call him Mr. Not-Alive-Anymore (aka Dead Phil). Now, the not-alive-anymore-part has nothing to do with either the author or drugs. Literally, some kind of freak accident. He was sweet and probably (literally) saved my life more times than I can remember. These were the days of primo-primo-junkie-meth. This is 23rd Street. I am young and wide-eyed and blissed beyond the imaginable. In NY, that particular summer, there was a massive brown-out. This is the only time that I remember the goings-on (in flashes)… and Mr. NAA saving my life. I know it was bad. And I know that I am alive. But that is another story. (and I will tell it… as much as I can remember because he did save my life). Anyway, for “I am a whore” purposes… he, like Mr LWH was someone that I believe that I’ve had sex with more than once. But unlike Mr LWH, Mr NAA wasn’t a crazed sex-fiend .

And, so there’s that. I mean, as far as sexual history goes… that’s what you’re gonna get right now.

Whatever the above amounts to, though, we’ve decided that, at least literally, I’m not a whore. However, it doesn’t explain anything about the fact that I feel like one.

So, he pays for everything, he is a thousand years older than me and I probably wouldn’t hang out with him, if he couldn’t help me (job-wise) and/or pay for everything. So, on the surface, atleast, it all looks very “whore”. I must say that I do enjoy his company and can actually have an interesting conversation with him… but then again, if one is pouring alcohol down my throat, I can probably have interesting conversation with a turtle.

But mostly, this is the complete opposite of my M.O. I don’t get random things for being eye-candy on someone’s arm. Simply because I am not eye-candy. I like my rapscallion homeless vibe. This is one thing that I have a hard time reconciling.

Again, to be continued. Sorry.

Though, to backtrack here, from a self-professed whore, here is another definition:

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AA the only way?

Referring to basically all of my posts as of late. You know, ‘why is AA the only thing?’ blahblahblah…

An Alternate Road to Recovery

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StoryTime! …yay!

Its as straight-forward as it sounds. Story Time = a Time for a Story.

On with the show.

02 June 2007…
I don’t know if I’m tired. But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums. In a certain New York suburban abyss, they were orange; here, I believe they are some sort of navy…. With my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the fact that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island . Useless and time consuming.

But for not better, and much much worse, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison. I must side-track a second here and say that I was looking pretty kick-ass. My hair was still passable as awesome [growing out, but still boyish short and adorable at that] and I was wearing this totally unconv-trendy-like almost sea foam green Diesel t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensem; completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger printing and confiscating of bag complete with searching through and itemizing; counting of my cash; removal of all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… some of which I never take off]. I am sent to this random room then to holding cell; where I’m first introduced to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses while cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California , there is no reason that cold, cold air should blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me watching some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blaring it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air. It’s like I’m on an ecstacy trip gone bad wherein all of my senses are hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I was not on ecstacy]. And this is also when I stop receiving information about what is presently and will happen to me.

I was arrested in West Hollywood probably a quarter of a mile from my house. The arresting cops were really nice. I dug them. And asked them a lot of questions about themselves. I mean, I was freaking out a bit, this was not part of the night’s plans or anything, but why not make it fun? There was this one rookie cop that was totally fresh off cop academy or whatever. I asked the other guy, seasoned and such if he’d ever killed anyone. He had not.

TO BE CONTINUED.

heh… I always say that.

It’s not a lie unless I die without continuing…

p.s. the fact that I got caught was surprising to me. kiko is above the law, you see. I mean, the rules never applied to me before this relatively ultimately debacle.

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Quotes from the Other Side

“It’s not like I was an alkie or anything. Alcohol is for cleaning needles…”
Jerry Stahl

Thank you, drive thru.

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Focus

So, this second… this very second… and only this second…

I am completely focused.

In this second, my potential focus has been realized. It is fading quickly… so I really have only so much time before the dullness shades in and I pass out. So I have to work quickly…

oh, and I’m drunk. FYI.

..heh… yeah…

But in recognizing this fact…

It really is no different.

…I mean, as before.

I take prescription speed. Legally prescribed by a doctor.

do my thing… then, i need to calm the extra buzzing.

…Alcohol sounds wonderful in this capacity.

So again, as before, I drink the wine that will balance the speed.

a la “this took a bit more planning”

and I reach this, basically the same, (though comparatively mundane) superlative place.

It’s the same.

I mean, it’s not. But it is.

I’ve learned and stretched time as much as I have. In a manner that I can function. All due to the cessation of the illicit, illegal form of speed that one acquires shadily.

So, time has stretched… but whatever. the focus has been shaded-out… and I’m over it. Or it’s over me.

the end.

 

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Story ’bout a Girl… [told in 3 parts… maybe 4, my attention span severely truncated as a result of my rendezvous with every chemical everywhere] part 1

I don’t know if I’m tired.

But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums… as well as straight-jacket, “calm-down”-rooms in psych wards. In a very small school, in a relatively suburban New York, the gymnasiums are lined orange. …I think?… Here, I believe they are some sort of navy… ….I don’t mark the moment. …too into ‘the now’, I can’t. I don’t think that I’m tired. Just a waning meth/wine buzz that I cannot see as a buzz anymore. Regardless, this is some sort of cot or bed… something…. and so, it advises… suggests, rest. This coupled with my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of large grey, rubber garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… I mean, it all points me to “sleep”… or something. But I think that I’ve now decided that I cannot be tired… really.

And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the creeping knowledge that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island.

Useless and time consuming.

But for now, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison in California.

The Side-Track Second:

Despite everything else, I look pretty kick-ass, I must say. My hair is still passable as awesome and I am wearing this weird trendy-like sea foam green t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensemble completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone [shout out to Diesel]… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger-prints and confiscation of “personal property” ie. Ricki’s-bought Yak-Pak-default-bag complete with a thorough search and itemization: count my cash; remove all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… most of which I’ve never removed prior], I am sent to a random “room”… square-ish, box-like, small… a wooden bench tacked-on or possibly extrudes from three sides. On the fourth side… a categorically lockable door with a large window into the inner-goings-on of the precinct. Or the precinct’s inner-goings-on of me… whatever.

Slam, click, lock… I freak. Where did my arresting cops go? My Stockholm Syndrome flairs.

They are gone. Most likely to the relatively ‘normal’ side of the hill…. where I should be. But I am here. Held against my will in a room I cannot escape. A seemingly million miles away from my current abode and upwards of light years from the home that I fled in a city that I love. And they are gone…. forever.

Somehow, it becomes okay, I guess… “Hold on tightly, let go lightly”.

Off to the holding cell and my first introduction to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses… Cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California, there is no reason that cold, cold air should be blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me, she watches some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blares it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air.

Like I’m rollin’ and the music stops and the trip goes horribly awry: my senses hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and, thus, rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I am not on Ecstacy].

And now, we’ve reached the point wherein I stop receiving information about what is presently happening and will happen to me.

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This took a bit more planning…

Date: 27 May 2007

Location: Los Angeles, CA 

This took a bit more planning, I realize.

Bottle between my legs… wrist twists and twists a wine key drills further and further, pierces the foil seal then take no mercy on the cork revealed…

Thank you, unmentioned restaurants, for the fledgling wine keys in my bag, car… everywhere! One must always be prepared! And furthermore, the skill. Constant opening of similar wine bottles with speed and accuracy. For this, if nothing else, a shout out, peace, props.

Well, of course, there is something else…

Head pops up… leftright… left right… never down…

…where my right wrist twists and twists and twists. Determined, automatic but somehow careful not to pierce the black leggings with the lace mid-calf.

Man, its fuckin’ hot!

…in the driver seat… of the Celica. Where my wrist twists and the sun basks in prime-time, ninety degree angle and bakes me, through the glass of the windshield of the sunroof, oven-style, squeezing every last drop of water in my body into a chemical bead on my forehead. Lick me… you’d probably catch a buzz. Dehydration city, baby!

Sometime in the vicinity of 2pm… possibly later… but as long as my eyes did not catch a glimpse of the digital glow, nothing was ever definite, I perfect the skill of the blind wine-cork-pop.

A parked car in a random, dead-end, side-street. miracle mile. ha!

Wait!

…stop!

okay, now…

I am a drug addict! I know this.

But what the fuck is this?

Where do my hands desperately twist toward? What is this cork?

Some kind of car-ass wino? In Los Angeles? …California?!

Um, okay… NO.

Pokey-poke Chelsea junkie, train-track smile, bopping across 23rd… yes.

But… what the fuck is this?

But my wrist twists and…

…POP!

… I remember ‘what the fuck this is’.

In an effort to keep the scales more-or-less aligned… manage, maintain the buzz or more appropriately, myself… I have found that a liquid lunch is much to my advantage. Nicely timed. Liquid lunch. Ahhh—-!

During the morning period [say 9am – 1pm] I would work the opposite angle [alongside my actual job, of course… which I love, don’t get me wrong… and is, for me, categorically the best job/occupation I’ve ever had, hands down!… but that’s another story].

Preceding this morning period… up at 6:30am, a shower and sit ups, push ups… all sorts of ‘ups’ came makeup alongside a glass or two of cheap white [where ever my threshold lay that day] in the form of what others have called, “2 buck chuck” from Trader Joes on Santa Monica… followed by a bump or three of cheap white…. in the form of… in the west, they call it methamphetamine. In the west, it’s also pretty much a crap-shoot. But, oh so, lovely. A cousin, brother, some distant relative of it’s sophisticated eastern counterpart [also another story].

I can dig it.

Off to the aforementioned job. The Celica; a perfect, though somehow indescribable blue. Heads out of the garage in East West Hollywood toward Gardner [where there is a traffic light] and heads down… down… down… the meth straightens and focuses and brings a wonderful glint to my train-track smile. But, most importantly, creates a synthesis with the alcohol.

I am SUPERB!

I am what I always should be.

And down, down… the same path… the same mix on the CD [at the same point everyday… the same song hits]… on Gardner, I hit 3rd? maybe [where the Grove is, whatever]… and the light is always LLOOOOONNGG. Exquisitely long enough for me to finish the cute metallic thermos of the remainder of aforementioned liquid white. I mean, there’s that park just passed that library and a 7-11 and the long long light…. oh, and that Washington Mutual that is not the user-friendly bank it’s said to be.

Not so much a ‘grimace’… just a ‘probably not water in that cute metallic Urban Outfitters‘ blue-pink thermos’**… as the last drops trickle down onto my dry tongue.

**UPDATE… 26 May 2011**

Scrounging around the Celica that no longer turns on, but still looks awesome as hell… the author finds under the driver seat (where she left it, after she threw it, when the cops decided to search the car, in the time that took place just before the events details in the “Story ’bout a Girl…” post) the exact cute metallic Urban Outfitters’ blue-pink thermos that she so often imbibed from… and some would say, saved her life (in a balance sort of way)… and by ‘some’, the author means… the author herself. It will always have a place in her heart. Click >>here<< for the picture. Yes, it did used to have a pink dome cap that was connected to what can only be described as shredded connector-thing. And yes, when opened, much of the top was corroded and all of the bottom was a petry dish housing for the bastard child of wine, metal, and oxygen. And it reeked. But, then again, alot of things are different now.

Down… down… just passed Miracle Mile… I arrive to the house on Cloverdale… park… and enter.

After a morning of bumps here and there [maybe two, three at the most] in the unlockable bathroom in the exquisitely covert house where we conduct hardcore mainstream business… I tip the scales a bit too far left and a liquid lunch in the pretty kick ass car… sweltering, but pretty kick ass was welcomed with open arms to reset, in essence… the balance.

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