August 07, 2013

Weekend Warrior

Every Friday is the beginning of a three-day binge. Yes, we are Weekend Warriors and we rock down, rock hard, party down, get hiiiiiiiigh and touch the sky. After 72 hours we come back down to the real world with the straight, boring, uncool little people like yourselves.

Some folks get too old for this kind of thing, but not me. I still dig the scene baby, and I can still get down with it, get down to it, and rock the house. I couldn't wait for work to end Friday so I could start to Part-tay, Hard-ay.

First it was Happy Hour, I really got down with it. Filled a glass with ice and poured me a tall white wine spritzer. Yeah! Rock N' Roll, Baby. Turn up CNN — I'm letting my freak flag fly!

Had to fortify myself for dinner. With a wild weekend of sex and drugs coming up, gotta get a foundation in the old gullet. I had some kale, mixed greens, and steamed tofu. I was feelin' alright, and by that I mean pretty damn good. Time to gather up my troops, my posse, and hit the town. (I don't really have any friends, though). I decided to go it alone – solo, baby. That's me and my best friend.

Then it began. You know the syndrome us partyers have – too much is never enough! We're always looking for the next plateau. Touch the sky, y'all! So after I finished off my novel I started on another one. Wow man, far out! Next thing you know, I'm in Coma City. Woke up in my bed. With my pajamas on.

I needed to score some drugs the next morning – my head was cloudy, aching from that wild-ass night. I went to my man, the guy up on Pantigo Road in East Hampton, the place all the druggies go. My man knows where all the good drugs are. "I need to score something strong, dude. Something to clear my head."

My man knew what I craved. We've played this scene many times. "Aisle five, next to the analgesics" he said.

Wow! I dropped two of the little pink ones. I was tripping out! I could barely look at the sun. It was like, yellow. The trees were like, in bloom. There were flowers everywhere. This must be heaven, or even better, Woodstock, I thought.

The irrational craving returned. I needed more. I should know not to mix drugs. I remember the old days – the speedballs. But you never learn – an addict always wants a bigger thrill, a better high.

I scored a lid of kashi. And some whole grains. And nuts and seeds of every description.

Saturday night was surreal. I could barely comprehend how it felt to mix these substances. Words can't begin to express the feelings. I was so, oh . . . I was so full of myself. Like the shifting tides, and the rotations of Mother Earth, I gravitated to a place deep inside myself, and then again outside the limitations of my mind and body.

I had ingested the very natural grains that, no doubt, contained the keys to unlock the door to Nirvana. But then I began to fell a strange tightness. It was as if these psychedelic grains, nuts, and fruits had formed a thick barrier, akin to a concrete wall, to block my lower intestines. I slept uneasy, waiting for relief that never came.

I needed to cop again Sunday – this time the hard stuff. A little man approached me on Pantigo. "Psssst. You wanna score some Metamucil?" he asked. I had to have it. Then My Man told me about another "Brand" that was so popular on the streets, "Brand X," he said knowingly. "X-LAX." Ahh, I realized. So that's what the hipsters in Los Angeles were using these days. I had to have some.

I made my own speedball, mixing the two drugs, though I knew I shouldn't have -- but there was nothing left to lose. It's as if all the fears and woes of mankind, all the rejections and the broken promises, all the worries and insecurities that had tied me up in knots were magically expelled from my body.

I collapsed, spent from the weekend of getting high, getting down, getting with it, getting jiggly, getting to it, and getting to the bathroom – a lot.

Sunday night, coming down. Cold Turkey sandwich.

The next morning I woke up like a hungry orphan might, starving for food. It was much like the Jay McInerney novel, Bright Lights, Big City, except my story is well written and I'm not dumb enough to write in the present tense. I grabbed a hunk of bread and shoved it in my mouth.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

I trudge off to work, holding my Bonac burger in one hand, a spittoon in the other, a Weekend Warrior no more.

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