also affectionately known as vicodin.
a bottle was sitting on the desk in the tech's office yesterday. in there to grab the phone, it took just that moment for my pharmaceutical radar to kick into overdrive and zone in on the label, and remaining pills with nasa-like precision. just 6-8 pills remaining, and i knew exactly what that mouthful would feel like.
[(why was it there?) shut up. (why haven't they put it away?) shut up. (could i snipe it?) SHUT UP!]
so, it's no surprise i had a "using" dream last night. we all have them. i've had them as i thrashed through the throes of rebound hell. and i was going to write about that dream until a skating star spiraled me away...
today, post target getaway, i was hangin' with the three gay stooges, self-referenced this way, openly and adoringly. we were waiting for the most exciting thing on ice since the bartles and james cooler (oh. right.) to glide out onto the ice. and he didn't disapoint. faux fur shoulder pads, fingerless gloves dramatically gracing his visage, he was a frozen ode to 80's fashion. cold as black ice...
and as the melancholy strains of "ava maria" vibrated out, off he soared on a sterling silver blaze of glory. sultry beauty. stunning power. and completely johnny.
and somewhere between the triple salchow and his layback spin, emerged a memory not too many yesteryears ago when i was an unknown disciple of johnny's. kickin' kidney ass, running 5 miles a day, eating like a rockstar, volunteering, screen testing for producers but starring as the good wife and not wolfing fiorinol for nearly a year. my frequency had changed, and i craved no interference.
my most authentic self.
and so i claim my birthright as a canuck, (oh, canada!), and lace up those figurative skates. and here in the golden state, i will glide forward, face tilted into the glorious california sun...skating toward a place i have yet to visit, but ultimately toe pick as home.
johnny weir. my role model. go figure.