I’m having a lot of trouble thinking about what to write on the blog this week. I’m not in a fight with anyone, not even a single member of my family. I’m feeling a level of antipathy about my career that is actually a blessed relief. I had a shameful flashback while on a run this morning — let’s just say it involved my period — and rather than recoil in horror, I said to myself, “sink into this shame, and embrace it,” and the thought just disappeared. All of these zen type feelings are probably thanks to the Xanax that my sister shared with me after getting corrective eye surgery earlier this week.
I probably shouldn’t admit to having taken it. But I think many of us can agree that if someone offers you a Xanax, and you’re basically an anxiety-prone obsessive compulsive lunatic, you say, “yes please.” You don’t say, “Hmm, I don’t think that I should take that wonderful substance that might let me get one fucking wonderful night of unadulterated sleep because people are going to judge me.”
Long story short, we ended up really miscalculating the dosage, and I think I might be permanently brain damaged. The lesson to be learned? Don’t take prescription drugs unless they’ve been given to you by a doctor. And even then, probably don’t take them.
Which is why the most brilliant thing I can think of writing this morning, while Caleb works at his studio, is that one person I would never want to fuck is Lil Wayne. One of his songs about sexing a hot woman who gives good head came on just as I reached the breathless expanse below the Brooklyn Bridge this morning, and my imagination immediately sparked a few horrible images, one of which involved him scrambling like a tiny tattooed arachnoid across my bed. Scary shit.
And now, I’m off to try to scrub away the feeling of one of his dreadlocks stuck between my teeth.
