Low

I be illin', my peoples. Not feeling well a bit. Oh, I'm not sick, per se...I just feel as if Thor brought down his oh so mighty hammer upon every last one of my little grey cells, smashing all higher intellectual functions to smithereens.

Last week was an extremely stressful one, both at work and at home. Time was, I'd have alleviated that stress with a little self-medication. I mean, in 1990, I'd have snorted a bucket of cocaine and washed it down with ten gallons of Jack and Diet Coke. In '95, I'd have taken a handful of valium, with a pinot grigo chaser. In 2000, I'd have smoked enough weed to numb the shakes, perhaps throwing in a little sport-fucking to keep it real, yo. Now? All of these delighful avenues are denied to me. Well, not "denied", exactly, since I'm the one doing the denying, since I've become my own "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" Except now, at long last, I'm paying attention to him. The man behind the curtain, that is. He was happy to be untied, un-ballgagged, let out of his broom closet. And stress? I just gotta learn to deal.

So, I'm dealing. And I'm learning that unmedicated stress makes me tired as all get out. Holy hell - how do you people deal with this shit all by yourselves? I want to sleep all the time. Around the clock. My limbs feel like barbells, lead weights. My head is all stuffed with cotton-wool. My eyes are scratchy. In fact, I finally understand that old song... "my head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus".

I must say, I have a newfound respect for the sober folk. Now that I am one, and all.