“I need more drugs because I had a heart attack yesterday and in my monumental pain I flushed my Percocet down the toilet.”

I stare.

AWwww, MAN, I don't know WHAT happened, man.

“No really.  I’m serious.  I don’t know what’s going on with my heart and I accidentally flushed my drugs down the toilet when it was causing me, like, serious pain.  I REALLY need some more.  I’m in like 24/10 pain.”

“That’s a pretty strange fraction.”

“Well, that’s how bad it is.”

I hope my eyes are at least a little more than half-closed, “Dude.  That’s your excuse?  Really?  That’s the best you have for me?  Flushed?”  My ever-blindingly cheerful mood deflates a bit.

“Well, it was the case manager who told me to come to you for more Percocet.  I tode her Dr. SW101 isn’t cool with narcs, so I figured you wouldn’t go for it, but she told me to try.”

“So, the NURSE made you do it?”

“No…well (looks hopefully at me), uh, maybe?”

Dr. SW101 set me UP!

He did utter one truth, I’m not cool with writing for unfathomable doses of highly-addictive, mind-altering substances that have outrageous street value and regularly cause the utter destruction of families, careers and lives.

He’s right.  I’m not cool with that.

Sometimes it feels like I’m just sitting in my clinic handing out bullets…each one stamped with “If this causes a disaster of any kind, please blame Dr. SW101.  His bank account number is 7749220485, and you can find his children at 13 XX street, usually after 6pm.  Punish him accordingly for making such a mockery of his Doctor’s Oath, society, God, the memory of Elvis, Stonehenge, Hello Kitty, Gooeyducks..and everything else even remotely sacred to humanity.”

But I’m used to that.  I’m used to being the candy man.  What I’m NOT used to, is being taken for so dimwitted that the medical equivalent of ‘the dog ate my homework’ excuse might work on me.

“You’re really using THAT one on me?”

“Look man,” (whips out his Blackberry Smartphone, provided free of charge by the Army to help with his healing), “I got pictures of the pills in the toilet.”

I decline the visual.  Don’t even need it.

“You’d need to pin my face to a cork-board with something in the range of 34,000 thumbtacks to talk me into giving you more narcotics with that lame excuse.”  I say.  What I DON’T say is that aside from fighting the good fight against blatant drug addicts (I do take care of true heroes; he’s not one of them), I’m just flat-out annoyed at the excuse.

“Frankly, you’re story is miserable.  Put in a little work, and you might score a few hits out of me for creativity.  I’ve been known to drop a few Vikes on someone just to tribute their impeccible style alone.”

“Style?”

“Yeah, you know, do some deep-thinking before you try get me to double your daily horse-halting, blue whale-euthanizing, brontosaurus-stupefying doses of addictive opiates.”

“Liiike, a better story?”

“Yep.  I loovvve fiction.”

“Um, like what?”

“The doc I’m replacing was partial to “I washed ‘em in my uniform”, so I’d say that’s a little, uh faded haha no pun intended *aHEM*, sorry, not making light of your “pain” or whatever, just a little side-joke for this glorious Army morning.  Anyway, where was I?”

“You were helping me come up with a story to score more narcs out of you.”

“Oh YEAH.  Thanks!  Let’s see, maybe I can help you….next time, try something along the lines of:

They're real. Seriously.

After a valiant but ultimately tragic battle, a saber-tooth tiger ripped your friend’s head off.  In desperation, you heroically dispatched said wildcat with your bare hands (careful with the back).  Then, without pausing to consider yourself, you gave him your ENTIRE BOTTLE of pills strong enough to drive the entire population of Gambia into rehab.

Unfortunately, when he swallowed them – since his head was removed from his body – your pills just dropped out on the ground, all slimy and spit-covered and quickly dissolved.  Thinking fastly, you propped his body up and then held his head over what you figured was the esophagus part of  your life-long friend’s neck so the remaining few pills – “Damn you, Johnny, swallow! – dropped out and settled into one of his neck-tubes, hopefully not the trachea.  Then you got him to a local ER, where they skillfully re-attached his head.

ONLY THEN, after your friend was recovering (he just might pull through, snif), did you think of yourself, realizing that you were, in fact, out of drugs for your endless back pain and heart attacks which you’ve been suffering from since you were born, 20 years ago.”

“That would work?”

“No.  But honestly, that story has more credibility than, ‘I flushed ‘em, brah, gimme some more.”

GIVE ME MORE!!!

I drank too much coffee and now I feel like the Incredible Hulk on speed. I’ve already had one near mental breakdown this morning, and I figure only a valium could help now. Gotta get on a plane to LA in a couple of hours, and I already have a problem with fidgeting. I’m going to lose my mind, help!

Ok, gotta get it together. Quick, put on some music! No, not that song… or that one either. Must type faster. Oh – stupid computer, you’re not typing fast enough! Damn! Oh, god, I feel good, oh shit, I almost crapped my pants. This is insane. Someone should make coffee illegal, or at least you need a license to drink it. My mouth is dry, and it tastes like coffee… mmm. My head is big like a balloon and I can hardly focus my eyes. My neck hurts, gotta stretch – aaah! I almost fainted! My heart is beating too fast, and my lungs feel like they’re going to cave in. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that Vicodin last night. Jesus. When will it stop?

Basically, I don’t have anything to say, except that coffee is ruining my life, and I love it! Nothing like getting paid to have a panic attack. I also noticed that even though I have all this energy and am completely wired, I can’t seem to get anything done and I’m making a lot of mistakes. This is gonna be interesting…

One small feel for man. One giant ass for mankind.

As if the Tea Party’ers did not have enough trouble being taken seriously, one of their future leaders was caught red, or better yet white, handed venturing on the wrong side of the law.

Ezell Harris, a Florida conservative and staunch Tea Party supporter, is facing serious legal ramifications for his involvement in a Florida drug ring.

Harris is being charged with four counts of dispensing illegal drugs without a license, trafficking in hydrocodone, unlawful use of a two-way radio, and possession of drug paraphernalia.

Harris, who served as a military policeman in the U.S. Army for 3 years, is believed to have been a big player in the distribution of Lorcet and Vicodin, two brand names of hydrocodone.

The misguided political hopeful ran on a drug-regulation platform, noting that “prescriptions drugs have replaced cocaine and other illicit substances as the leading cause of deaths in Florida.”

The following is an excerpt from an actual conversation between Conrad Noir and Marco Sparks last night. Yes, this is what they’re really like…

Marco Sparks: So, you’ll never believe this dream I had the other night…

Conrad Noir: I don’t know if I’m really up for a conversation about your hopes and dreams, man.

Marco: Well, when I say “dream,” what I really mean is sweaty, dread-dripping nightmare.

Conrad: Oh yeah? Shit. Nevermind. You know I’m all ears for that. Shoot.

Marco: Well, I’ll tell you about the nightmare in a second, but first let me tell you about my Saturday night…

Conrad: Always a catch, isn’t there? Shit. Okay, tell me about your Saturday ni-

Marco: It was awesome. But then, later on, I was just trying to go sleep, right? And it’s late, I don’t remember the time, but late. So I turn on the TV and put it on mute, just wanting some flickering light and alpha wave manipulation in the room. Or something.

Conrad: Sure, sure. Perfectly normal.

Marco: So then I lay down on the bed. The room I’m in though, there’s no remote. Or, if there is, fuck if I know where it is.

Conrad: Oh, yeah, man’s constant struggle.

Marco: Right, so I’m stuck with whatever the channel is because, well, I’m lazy.

Conrad: I feel that.

Marco: In this particular case, it was A&E. The former Arts & Entertainment channel.

Conrad: “Former” being the operative word.

Marco: Seriously. Airing that late evening/early morning was a seeming non stop marathon of CSI: Miami episodes.

Conrad: Wow. Ouch.

Marco: Ouch is right. And let me tell you, I could not sleep with that on.

Conrad: How do you mean?

Marco: Every five seconds they cut back to a shot of David Caruso! Constantly! And let me tell you, Caruso has two emotional speeds on that show. The first: Putting on his sunglasses. The second: Taking them off again. People could be on fire, running around screaming, bits of their skin melting off or whatever as creatures of the apocalypse commit homicides or devour souls or just what have you, and Caruso’s cool as Fonzie the whole fucking time.

Conrad: That seems accurate with the little bits of it I’ve caught occasionally.

Marco: Also, it’s freakishly bright. Like, too bright and dayglo for even Miami.

Conrad: Okay.

Marco: It would not let me sleep! I turned over, looked at the flickering light patterns on the wall, like some kind of twisted variation on Plato’s Cave and I felt like Caruso was picking me up from the airport and driving me straight to madness!

Conrad: Caruso’s like that.

Marco: This is the guy from NYPD Blue to subjected America to his ass. Why would you want to see this man’s ass?!

Conrad: Or Dennis Franz for that matter.

Marco: Well… obviously. But, so I lay there, squeezing my eyes shut. But it was no good, man. I knew that Caruso was in the room with me. Putting his fucking sunglasses on. Or worse.

Conrad: Worse?

Marco: He could’ve been taking them off again…

Conrad: Okay, so this was the nightmare?

Marco: Oh, no, this was real. Deadly real. Eventually I must’ve passed out from all the stress of his ontological torture and when I woke up, of course, A&E was still on, right?

Conrad: Yeah, of course.

Marco: So, the sun is shining through the window, birds are chirping little songs and I’m a little tired, but I’m breathing a sigh of relief. I’m all like, “Thank God, it’s morning, I made it. I survived!”

Conrad: This is going somewhere bad, isn’t it?

Marco: You bet your goofy ass it is, my friend. Because there on the TV…

Conrad: Yeah?

Marco: Motherfucking Chris Daughtry was on the TV. Somebody was actually interviewing him!

Conrad: Ugh. Gross.

Marco: Exactly! Why would anyone want to interview that fucker? Why is he on the TV? Why did my day have to start with these violent images? It was like… last night I couldn’t enter the domain of sleep and now… Now I can’t be awake with this in the world!

Conrad: I feel like I need a drink now.

Marco: Me too. From just, you know, reliving that traumatic experience. From being the plaything of the sandman.

Conrad: So what was the nightmare?

Marco: Oh, the nightmare. Yeah, sorry. That was last night. I was like in a room, but I wasn’t. I was like “the camera” or whatever. Anyway, there was a little boy and he was trapped in the room. No windows, yet there was moonlight slipping around. And he was sleeping like a little shit does and then goblins crawled out of the cracks in the walls and out from under the bed and cut off his eyelids or something.

Conrad: Damn. I like that. I mean, that’s seriously creepy.

Marco: Yeah, it was something. When I woke up, I knew you’d love it.

Conrad: You were right. And goblins, you say? Wow. Goblins. That part is especially wild. People don’t throw around the word “goblins” all that much anymore.

Marco: Let me tell you something about goblins, my friend. Something you may not know. Something very few people may actually know.

Conrad: Do it.

Marco: Goblins, man. They’re no joke. They’re fucking scary, and they’re fucked up. And they will fuck you up. You understand me?

Conrad: Yes, I believe I do. But let’s talk about something important now. Let’s talk about me and my dreams. And my nightmares.

Marco: Take aim and fire away, baby.

Conrad: So, you know, I’ve been taking melatonin a lot lately, right?

Marco: Cause you can’t get your hands on ambien, right?

Conrad: Yeah, sorta. I got tricked into trying to go all natural, which is a sham. Whenever in doubt, just go with hard drugs.

Marco: Put that on a t-shirt.

Conrad: Don’t tempt me.

Marco: But I feel you. I have several friends who don’t realize they’re becoming recreational vicodin addicts, which is cool, cause this is America and shit. But I can’t do that stuff anymore. It gives me freaky nightmares. I mean, genuinely freaky nightmares. Like, where the goblins show up and tell me I’ll have erectile dysfunction for the rest of my life and or will be forever locked in a mortgage I can’t afford.

Conrad: As long as you’re not longer dreaming about Avril Lavigne, you’ll be fine.

Marco: I’ll have you know: That was a very special time in my life.

Conrad: Anyway… me. And my nightmare.

Marco: Do it.

Conrad: So, I guess you’re supposed to take melatonin only so much, right? Until it stirs up your… well, I don’t know. Something. Some kind of chemical. I’m not a trained doctor or anything. But you take it short term, you get some rest, you move on.

Marco: Gotcha.

Conrad: But I keep taking it because it gives me juicy nightmares. And I’m a horror movie fan.

Marco: I remember that you were a Freddy guy more than a Jason guy.

Conrad: Exactly! Anyway, so the one I had last night… Wowza.

Marco: Oh?

Conrad: Oh yeah. So I’m like wandering around in this fucked up, dark version of Chuck E. Cheese’s, right?

Marco: This already sounds terrifying.

Conrad: Oh, it was. Believe you me. It so was. And there’s all these fat, sweaty white people around me.

Marco: Your ultimate nightmare.

Conrad: My ultimate daymare, you mean. But there they are. And there’s famous gross white people there too. Like Jeffrey Dahmer.

Marco: I remember that Peanut used to date a guy who looked like Jeffrey Dahmer. Man, I hated that guy.

Conrad: Me too. Well, Dahmer, anyway. But he was the guy who, later on I discovered, didn’t belong in the dream. But there was other famous people too. Like Mary Kay Letourneau. And Roman Polanski. And Joey Buttafuoco. And Debra Lafave. And Pete Townshend. And Bobby Fisher. And Gary Glitter!

Marco: Oh shit. You were at a child molester convention!

Conrad: Exactly. By accident, of course. Once I realized what was going on, I was like, “Oh shit, I gotta get the fuck outta here!”

Marco: Shit. I hope so.

Conrad: So I take off for the door, right? But right as I get to it, I notice the little bulletin board listing who all the speakers are going to be at this thing.

Marco: So, it was like a proper convention then? With speakers and talks and things?

Conrad: Yes! Terrifying, right?

Marco: Very.

Conrad: So I’m running my finger down the board, just looking at all the famous names. I remember that R. Kelly was on there, of course.

Marco: Right. Yeah. “Age ain’t nothing but a number,” after all.

Conrad: And then I get to the end. The keynote speaker.

Marco: Ooh, this is going to be good, isn’t it? Who was it?

Conrad: I’m not bullshitting you here. It was Jon Gosselin.

Marco: Oh… wow.

Conrad: I know, right?

Marco: Yeah. Wow. Eeesh.

Conrad: But, whereas everyone else had their name and like a title of what their speech was going to be about or whatever, after his name… there was just one word. One single word.

Marco: What was it?

Conrad: It was simply… “Gangsta.”

Marco: Oh. My.

Conrad: Uh huh. It shocked me away. And I sat there, in my bed, just catching my breath from the sheer intensity of the thing. And I just whispered it back to myself. “Gangsta.”

Marco: Wow…

Conrad: Yeah, I know.

Marco: Yeah.

Conrad: Yeah.

Marco: Yeah, uh… let’s talk about something else, okay?

Mimicking and copy catting is inevitable. I’m part of a generation where just about everything’s been done. In this closing year of 2009, the “Obama Generation” is raised with a mentality, no flat out law of nature: Everything new is automatically traditional. A fatalistic prediction has become a fatal reality. The war is not fought on the terrain, nor in the sky, or in the mind. the war is fought against each other. The war is fought in the past. We already know we have lost. Fighting has lost all value. So here I sit, comfortable. Ready to fight. If I’m brave enough.

The choking paralyzing fear felt by every teenager, must go through the pipes first. The chain of freedom, nor the chimes are there anymore. There is no freedom for anybody anywhere. Even those enforcing the punishment are not free. The moment you enter Public School, you enter a cruel spin cycle downwards. All the way down until the end.

So here I was, the precipice of student loans, diversity, more learning. College. After that I don’t really know what. But I’m not quite sure if I’m happy with what the future holds. But, no sense in thinking about the future. Better to slow myself down. I think too hard, and too fast. I needed something to calm me down, something to make my junior year more bearable. It’s been a few months since Summer, and I think I have my plan. A sort of social experiment, a search.  Very recently, a man in his forties told me that I needed to push myself out of my comfort zone. So here I am, taking a risk. But, then again, it’s not like High School can get much worse.

PEP RALLY

It was during, I think fourth period, that I was awoken from my slumber.

“Charlie!” somebody shout-whispers my name at me. I blink away and see the pale skin of my hand. I look over and I see Lucy, or LuLu, as she’s called by some of her friends. Not me though, I have no time for nick names. Lulu is from, I think, Vietnam. My grand father would slap the peach fuzz off my chin, if he knew I hung out with Charlie. Maybe my father named me Charlie to spite him? Some sort of a father issue I’m sure. I don’t really have father issues. Shit, my dad got me the bottle of Vicodin stashed in my backpack right now. I can’t help myself. I have about nine left. Vidodin doesn’t make me sleepy, but I’m just so mellow I can’t help myself. Lulu isn’t looking at me, as she taps me awake. She’s got nice skin, and very nice lips. God I’m mellow.

Today there’s a pep rally after school. Best day to start my experiment. I don’t have to focus, don’t have to worry about work. Not like I do anyways. Apparently Lulu was tapping me because our teacher, Mr. Hoyle is passing tests back. I’m not sure if they’re ones we’ve graded or what. It’s blank when it comes to me so I’m assuming it’s one he expects me to do right now. What’s it about?

THE GREAT GATSBY CHAPTERS 4 – 6

Fair enough. I can’t really say whether or not it’s a good book, I’ve never read it. Oh, well, I guess I’ll just check off a few things here and there. Why not? Mr.Hoyle is a nice enough guy. Looks like he graduated from College, and couldn’t cut it as a dentist or something. Poor fuck. I remember hearing about him whenever I was a freshman. Back in those glorious days there used to be great big fucking trees that lined the back of the school. Right past the portable classrooms and all the electrical horse shit. Trees where it was perfectly safe to hide and do whatever you please. Get high, get blown, get fingering.

So here’s Mr. Hoyle, during lunch, out walking around. He sees these two suspicious looking Hispanic youngsters in the trees. Gay lovers? Possibly. The public School system of south Texas,  I would imagine, don’t take kindly to no queers. That didn’t stop the rumors of gay anal sex in the locker room from spreading around like the swine flu. Anyways, here’s Mr. Hoyle. He walks up to the two boys, and before he can get much closer, they spot him.

“Hey!” he shouts, knowing full well what they just stomped out. It’s too cold to just be standing around outside. Not unless you’ve got a fire. They begin walking out, and steering clear of his direction, running at a pretty fast pace. So here’s Mr. Hoyle stepping after these two dopers,  a man in his late twenties. From what I know, the second he grabs one of their shoulders to get some answers, the boy whips around like a top and belts Mr. Hoyle in the chin. And also, from what I know, this knocked Mr. Hoyle right on his back in the cold Winter grass. The two dopers got away. I don’t really know what happened to them whether or not they got caught. Perhaps. I’ve heard of worse. I’ve heard kids talk about getting stoned directly to their teacher, who just shrugs their head. 

I guess the adults, at least the ones here, have just flat out given up. For some reason they aren’t bothering to tell us that drugs are bad. Drugs can fuck you up good and proper, they don’t tell us that anymore. They just say they’ll kick us out if they find it. That’s about it. Not that I’m against drugs. I can’t really be against them, I’ve gotta take them for the next few months. 

When you’re like me, halfway intelligent surrounded by mouth breathers, you often have deep thoughts. Either that or do drugs. I could never have quite the patience to regularly get my hands on narcotics, so I just stuck primarily with my deep thoughts. But now here I was, combining the two. I try to be positive in this place, and I succeed some days. I’ve had a lot more good days than my Freshman and Sophomore year. But at a certain point, I can’t take this garbage sober. Who can? It’s not like I’ll be the first to get fucked up before they come to school. High school of all places. And it’s a pep rally. I’d rather overdose on amphetamines than school spirit. Once you get too much of that shit you don’t just die and it’s over. You die inside and your corpse is left to parade around the halls in a trite two color schemed outfit. Paint on your face and a slogan on your shirt. A little bill board for your school. Fuck that. 

Why not just ignore it? The homework, the teachers, the rules, the hours. All that can go fuck itself. So why don’t I just drop out? That’s like asking myself why don’t I just blow my brains out? Why bother with all the problems of living life as a human? I know deep down it won’t make a difference if I live or die, if I stay or drop out. Honestly the only reason I’m staying is because I’m having too much of a good time with the people around me. Watching them, judging them and occasionally liking them. Hey, what can I say? I’m a people person. That’s what this is all about, anyways. Why do thousands of these kids get up at ungodly hours and trudge over to this place? I could understand if it was for friends, but I mean shit. Go to the mall for that. Why do they really care about grades? I need to know what motivates them to come here day. I have a few things, maybe about three, for real. 

But, in the meantime, I have Jay Gatsby to take care of. Lulu is a real doll, she lets me cheat off her. Great girl. I don’t know why I’ve never tried starting some kind of a companionship with her. Maybe we’re both too smart? I dunno, lemme see. Okay that wasn’t so difficult. Lulu is really a gem. I have an interesting, chain-linky like relationship with her that I’ll need to explain later. For now I have to turn in our tests. I say our, because I feel it’s the least I can do: turning in her test for her. I pass by these two three foot wrestling kids who sit together and one of them gives me a funny look.

I’m gonna go ahead and say now: Wrestling is very, very homoerotic. Everybody knows this. But you’d be a damned fool not to know that any one of these animals could tear your face off without a second thought. As gay as they may be, you have to respect wrestlers. It’s not like they’re football players. I look back at them once I sit in my seat. One of them looks back at me. He turns to his friend and laughs. Ugh, I figure I’ll get some sleep. I don’t want to become that “stupid weird kid”. These two short brick shit houses. One of them at least knows how short he is, in a self-deprecating kind of way that makes him very tolerable for a sporting kid. Now I look like a fool to him. Great. I’d just like to go four years without looking like an idiot to anybody. Perhaps an extremely tall order to fill in a place like high school. 

I wonder how many vicodin I could take in one day and still be safe? I still only wanna take one every morning, I can’t afford to lose this shit. So now I’m sitting here in the middle of class, and I’ve got a red sore on my ass from sitting in these seats for so fucking long. The only respite is the smooth curves of Lulu’s lips. God how I wish I was not seventeen. Not cursed with naughty, naughty thoughts of good friends. I once read some nerd ask a question that went: “What should I do if I have a wet dream about my best girl friend?” the reply was a very short, Christian: “Never talk to that person again.” If I followed that advice I wouldn’t have any friends. Well, some men of course, but not girls. Because the Vicodin is beginning to slip into the space between my mask and my face. I slowly feel all the little pieces of mental garbage lifted from my brain and it puffs up all amazing and pink like cotton candy in my skull. Magnificent. My limbs get tingly warm, and my eyes just don’t give a shit anymore. My lips, instead of a natural frown, attain a natural dazed smirk. My chapped lips, unlike the smooth puffy lips of Lulu.

This whole thing is going pretty swimmingly from the start. One morning in, and I’m actually contemplating asking a casual friend for a casual blowjob sometime. I wonder. I think I’ll get ripped and walk around the cafeteria during lunch, asking every girl for head. There’s about a thousand or so broads sitting in the commons at lunch. One is bound to find me as attractive as I find myself, and slutty enough to wanna come slobber on me for a little bit. It’s statistics, it kind of has to work. That’s what I learned in math. 

Later on in the day and luckily, my vicodin has stayed to the end of the day. Probably because I haven’t felt it’s sickly soft helmet on my scalp in quite a while. My backpack feels like it’s floating on my body and my shoes feel like they’re made of marshmallows. And every girl passing by me, Lulu, Clarice, and her boyfriend are all made out of absolute gorgeous. I wonder what I would feel like if I took ecstasy. Shit, I wanna fuck most of the girls I see even when I’m sober. The closer we walk though the throng of radiating teenage bodies, jumping and screaming, to the gym the more I begin to realize what would normally be a dark thought. But since I’m kind of floating a mellow, it’s actually not that bad. Maybe every time I take this, I’ll only think about women. Hmm…. I don’t think so. No, during History I had a pretty amazing daydream about being a viking, there was only a little sex in that.

I had fiery red hair and a great red beard, and a great big red dog by my side. I ran, adrenaline pumped, through rain darkened villages hammering the heads of anything in my way. Smash. Smash. God the adrenaline of it, so satisfying. Then I found a nice Swedish girl and fucked her. But that’s pretty much how every story ends. 

The student body is so crowded, fucked up, and somehow selfish that walking through a thin hallway is like wading through a big swimming pool filled with warm marshmallow fluff. Aahh…  Once I’m out of the marshmallow pits, I’m into the Small Gym, or the lesser gym. If you don’t wanna watch the shit that goes on in the big gym during a pep rally (Dancing, cheerleading, blind folded football players eating their mom’s snatch, the usual), you head your un-washed way into the small gym. Lots of kids came to the small gym, a lot of the kids I was friends with. Once kid come up to me, his name is Homer. I know I’ve seen him in an altered state, so it’s high time I returned the favor.

“Hey what’s up, man?” he asks putting his hand out. I hug him, in the middle of all the teenagers, crazy happy to see their dumb friends. 

“I fucking love narcotics, sir…” I sort of shout, I think. Kids always shout crazy shit during a pep rally like “Gay!” and “Rape!”. ” I fucking love narcotics is god too.” 

“Shit, man, I know what you mean. You lit right now?!” he asks, grinning an acne free grin on his skater punk face.

“Yeah, pretty much, sir… You should try it.” by this point I realize how rude I’m being because I’m not looking at him. I’m looking over at Lulu, with one her friends. Now the lights in the gym are like spotlights. Now the people all around me are asshole. Lulu is walking to her friend, her name is Daisy. Daisy is the reason I’m fucked up.

Herniated disc story continued (see post below this one first.)

That first week I had to cancel my classes that I teach at the local community college. I tried to find substitutes but was not successful. The next week I still couldn’t walk very well and was still in pain. I found substitutes for my classes that next week but was extremely disappointed not to be able to teach for two weeks. For one, I enjoy it and I care about my students. I didn’t want to leave them in the lurch. Additionally since I am “part time faculty” I don’t get sick- leave. If I have to cancel or get a sub, my pay is docked. I was already at $700 out of pocket with the MRI and the doctor visit. Now they were saying I needed a cortisone shot and the cost of that was $1,300 for the shot and $800 for the doc. OVER TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. And I have no health insurance (again because I am “part time faculty”) and it is not like I haven’t tried, but a full time job as a historian is like finding a needle in a hay stack.

Now, people tend to have lots of opinions about cortisone shots. But when I was in that much pain I was willing to try anything short of surgery. There was one night, prior to the cortisone shot that was particularly bad. The nerve that was being pinched due to the torn disc, was sending pain down my left leg. This was getting worse into the second week. It got to a point one night where the pain in my leg was insane and the vicodin was not working. The label said I could take it every 6 hours. I am someone who doesn’t easily take drugs. I don’t know much about them. I had to make the executive decision that night to take one every 4 hours instead of 6. However, the vicodin only gave me relief for 2 hours at the most at a time. Therefore I had to deal with 2 hours of horrendous pain, at each interval, throughout the night. I had nothing else in the house to take, and I was alone.

I have a high pain tolerance. The docs in the Italian hospital said so. But psychologically, at this point, it is very hard for me to handle more extreme pain. The pain that night reduced me to tears. I honestly felt that I wasn’t going to be able to stay in my body if I had much more of that pain. The next day I knew I would try the cortisone shot. Even at the extremely inflated cost, which I could not afford.

It turns out, the shot made me feel way better. I was able to go back to teaching the next week. The students clapped when I came in on crutches. I love those students.

My bed feels like a garden and my legs feel tethered to it like weeds. Maybe it’s the vicodin, but it wasn’t the wine. I didn’t drink a sip of wine tonight. The week was corkscrewed open and poured close, down my throat, until I curled under the blankets and let myself go. The vicodin, I swear, I had to take because of my back. I slept on it all wrong. And once I fell out of a window. Once I was even in an upside down car. This week, you could say, was an upside down car—except, instead of crashing into rocks, it was served on them with a lemon. You could say that, you know. There are pictures and bottles and rumors to prove it. Too many police officers and not enough heavy breathing. But what happens at the end of the long, autumn nights? Where do we keep the umbrellas when the rain has stopped coming down? I lie slack in bed and ask questions with or without the wine. The vicodin, I promise, won’t answer.

We Appreciate Your Not Smoking Here.

What a shit hole this is. And what a shitty way to spend a Friday evening after a hellish week. I am close to feeling overwhelmed at work. My greatest distress at work is caused by the quality and nature of the work I am doing. Ohmigod, I have lost myself somewhere in the shopping aisles full of all the packaged goods I help flog. I have lost myself. I am an empty vessel. I need to get laid. Or try vicodin with alcohol chasers. I need some kick. Good god, I need a vice.

I went to the doctor on Monday because of my back pain. The doctor prescribed me Vicodin for my back pain, Ambien for my lack of a normal sleeping schedule, Ultram for my back (in case the Vicodin makes me sick), and I take Zoloft everyday.

So I was reading about the side effects for Ambien on Wikipedia (my go to for anything I have a question about) and your not supposed to take ANY pain relievers, muscle relaxers, AND/OR anti-depressants, which the doctor prescribed to me all in one day. So now I’m having to figure out what to take when and how bad I need whichever pill I need at the moment so I won’t like, OD or something because I’m just not feeling it at this particular moment.

On my third night of being on this sleeping pill the Ambien weirdness that I’m sure you’ve all heard of finally kicked in. Hubby said when he was getting into bed, I was talking about a raccoon as big as a donkey trying to kill me.

WOW. That makes me extra special, right? Ah, I’ve missed that vivid imagination of mine. I blame Laurie Notaro for putting the idea of a raccoon in my head from her book There’s A Slight Chance I Might Be Going To Hell. THANKS, LAURIE. Now I have to worry about getting my face chewed off by a raccon… a donkey-sized one, to be specific.

A couple of nights later, I pop an Ambien (even though I’m not ready to go to bed yet). I’ve learned that I like the feeling of being on Ambien right before I go to sleep, so I’ve gotten into the habit of taking an Ambien a couple of hours before going to bed so I can feel “fuzzy.” Sometimes I’m just in the mood for that type of fuzzy feeling. And I figure taking an Ambien is better than being hooked on crack or cocaine or whatever, so I just go with it.

I’m outside smoking about the time my Ambiem starts to work and as I look up at the sky I notice that the stars are falling. In my yard. I sit in amazement for a few minutes just watching all the stars fall. They’re so beautiful and I can’t help but step off the porch and play in them. So I’m outside spinning in my backyard in the middle of the night watching the stars fall. It doesn’t really hit me until a couple of seconds later that the stars aren’t actually falling on me, they’re just falling. I look up and realize that no, they’re not falling, they’re actually swinging from different angles towards me. Like they’re attached to a string and God is just toying with me.

In my amazement of this, I go inside to wake Hubby up. He’s asleep and has to be up for work in just a few short hours, so I tell him about all the falling stars and how I need him to go out there and make sure they’re falling and I’m not just crazy. But he won’t wake up and he seems somewhat ill that I’ve even woke him up for this, so I go back outside and play in the stars for a few more minutes before I go to bed.

Since Thursday morning, I’ve been sufferring from some viral ailment. Started off with the harbinger of doom: The Sore Throat. . . Here, in this global climate of flu pandemic paranoia, I give you the stages of the “Viral Ailment”!

Stage 1 – Denial!

Like any good American, at the onset of the grippy sore throat, I denied any trace of illness.

“What’s that? A sore throat you say?”

“Neigh! Neigh! ‘Tis a hairball!”

" 'Altering the Deal' for 1200, please?"

Stage 2 – Paranoia!

(Written in Second Person, but you fuckers know it’s me.)

You start to question if you got it from that kid who ran into class a couple of days ago to proclaim his forthcoming leave of absence in light of being successfully diagnosed with pneumonia.

You start avoiding the bird seed patch that you usually step on; in case there are any remnants of the Avian Influenza strain that started its process of infecting you a couple of weeks ago – Wait! It’s the fucking pork steak I had a couple of days ago!

I start Googling that shit. . . No, it’s not transferrable through cooked pork – but, ah! ‘Tis good to be on the watch for mutating viral ailments.

Maybe it’s that fucker who rubbed the remnants of his oatmeal breakfast on the bus “Stop” button that you had to press.

Gah! So many possibilites! So few diseases!

I actually start to narrow down the diseases via the Dr. House method. It’s either H1N1 from the pork (always chances!), the regular Influenza, the Avian Influenza, Pneumonia, or the Common Cold!

Google -> Wikipedia Treatment -> Viral Diseases

All the symptoms are fucking identical!

Stage 3: “Eye of the Tiger” Phase

Play on Survivah!!!

You start coughing, feel cold enough to think you’re having a fever, but nothing shows up on your thermometer. You’re tough as nails. You got a 90 in Ms. Mathias’s class. You’re going to pull this shit off!
The shortest of stages: I present to you the “Eye of the Tiger” Phase!
Clad with a 200mg big pack of Flu Tylenol, Advil, Shitty Cough Syrup and Vicodin for kicks -

Unrelated Painkiller Pile

You start going “YEAH! Imma Salt Water that shit!”

Imma let you finish! Imma let you finish! But the Spanish Flu was the best flu of all time mothafuckaz! *Pops ‘em painkillers good.*

Stage 4: Defeat.

You’re fucking defeated you miserable shit. Bus yourself to the doctor with a runny nose, and everyone giving you awkward looks. You pat your cell-phone holder threateningly – Scary old lady who sits opposite you on the Public Bus mistakes this for a sexual advance. On any other day, you’d tear her pussy up. But you want Tamiflu, and prescription painkillers strong enough to put an elephant to sleep. Your bones ache. You feel this impending doom at laying off your homework till the last minute – Ah! You get off the bus. Phat doctor gives you a face-mask that doesn’t fit you, you start drawing threatening looks from parents with vulnerable, sweet vulnerable little babies. It might be the flu, but there’s no fever. Wait till Monday, and then get Tamiflu – The Flu’s New wonder drug that unfortunately doesn’t do much than dent H1N1.

It’s Saturday night, you’re supposed to be out chilling at a friend’s place, he calls, you tell him that you’re at funeral. Then you cough the alveoli out your lungs. Nobody must know! I need my four hour shifts and I can’t afford to cut school!

Homework piles up, nothing tastes or feels good anymore – not even Johnny Cash. You sleep like a passed out drunkard, you wake up and you’re not the shit anymore. You iz a sad, undiagnosed kitty with no zeal for life.

You’re pretty sure atheism is the way to go by now, and you search for random funny videos all day long on youtube until you feel good enough to do homework.

Dear Mr. Toilet, I withdraw my post as “The Shit” until further notice.

- Regards,

Viral Victim

I started this WordPress account because I am bored, in bed, and in a lot of pain. Not emotional pain, not moral pain, just good old-fashioned testicle pain. Since it’s so horrifying and debilitating, I’ve been reduced to wasting a perfectly good afternoon regaling strangers with TALES OF UROLOGY!

My troubles started last Monday when I jolted out of bed in excruciating pain located in my southern hemisphere. In a panic I examined myself to find that it felt like someone had tied a knot with the spermatic cord of my left testicle. Upon discovering this, I fainted twice from a pain that’s best described as getting kicked with steel toed boots while suffering from blue balls. Guessing that it was testicular torsion, I had been rushed immediately to the emergency room. They had me answer several awkward questions, and sent me to be examined by a certain Dr. Lemons (I lol’d quite heartily at the appropriateness of that name). By the time he had started poking and prodding at my wrinkle satchel, the swelling and pain had subsided making him believe that is was not torsion. This did not stop me from almost flopping off the examination table in pain the second he pinched my gooblies, after which he told me I needed a testicular ultrasound. So they make me waddle down the hall of the ER, still wearing a paper gown, to the ultrasound room. Well, I get there, and discover to my horror that the woman who is to administer this ultrasound smells like a rank combination of fish and sweat. While she was smearing my testicles with goo and rubbing a machine over them, she stared at me in a manner that felt like she was piercing my very soul (which I think would constitute as rape in most states). After that I had to park my sore hips in the waiting room next to a burn victim and a coughing flu patient for the better of two hours, waiting to see what they gathered from the black and white pictures of my nut innards. After staring at the fuzzy waiting room television, I was called into the office to be told that it was a bacterial infection, which my mother took to mean as “STD”. I assured her that I was still a loser, which eased her fears, but I was quite audibly calling bullshit on the bacterial theory. Against my will I had to take a week-long course of antibiotics, which made me sick as a mofo, untill I could see my urologist. Well I did eventually get around to seeing him, he told me that I was right in calling bullshit, that I did have torsion, and that I needed surgery. At this point I was quite scared, so I asked him what the surgery entailed in order to ease my fears. Unfortunately it was not exactly a soothing explanation, “Oh it’s no big deal, essentially we’re just going to tack your testicles to your scrotum!” In case you’re wondering, yes, it hurts just as badly as it sounds. I had the surgery on Monday, it’s now Wednesday and I’m still bed-ridden and groaning like a beached whale. The good news is that if I hadn’t gotten the surgery, I would have run the risk of losing a testicle. The bad news is that… Well, the rest of it is pretty much all bad news. I’m on vicodin for the pain, so I’m pill’d out of my skull, I have to stay in bed pretty much 24/7, and go figure that having hurt testicles makes everything else hurt as well. So, in conclusion, testicular torsion is pretty much as horrifying as it sounds.

Today finds me ill, with a bad cold. That means chills, aches and pains, and mucus. Lying in bed, my mind is racing despite having taken two Vicodin, seven Xanax, and smoked some pot. The pot was hard to keep into my painful, withered lungs.

I’m wearing Linda’s underwear, which is perfectly comfortable given my lack of testicles. My Obama shirt is keeping my nipples warm, which is a crucial aspect of any sick man’s recovery; warm nipples. Socks embrace my feet.

The stereo is playing Marni Nixon sings Classic Kern, as in Jerome Kern. She is singing, “The Song is You.” Annie is in the window, which is still a bit open against the cold, but the lights are off and the blinds are drawn as much as possible. I detest sunlight. I’m not sure why, but it makes me very unhappy.

Today, I wanted to write about sex a bit. But it doesn’t seem necessary. Nothing I do hasn’t been done 1,000 times before, and better, by someone else.  So I’ll make it quick.

Hilary Swank apparently got into trouble with some fans last week when she revealed that she doesn’t bother putting a top on in the morning, and that her boyfriends 6 year old son has often seen her magnificent Swank breasts.

My response to the story was a total lack of shock, followed by me imagining what she looks like naked, and then I moved on. But there was more. The comments section of this particular newspaper was full of Swank criticism! She was called, “trailer trash” and “vulgar.” It was at that point that I realized I had to say something, using my only megaphone. The Velvet of Pansies.

Linda and I once went to a nude camp, for one Saturday night. That provided two days of surreal nudity in public. We conversed with a Providence doctor, who happened to be in fine shape, about this and that. All the while pretending that vagina lips and cocks weren’t getting sunshine. Soon after, we swam and found that swimming nude is pure heaven. It’s just right. The campfire that night also felt right naked, except for the spark that sometimes flew out and threatened a vulva or a scrotum. Or anything, really.

Generally speaking, however, my clothes are on. Linda is the sole benefit of nude tomfoolery. But why are Americans so squeamish about breasts? And nudity? Let’s start with boobs.

They are not a sex object, except in the mind of the wanna be beholder. They have a function, to feed babies and put the right stuff in their bellies. Cow milk is not a good thing. Women now want the right to feed their babies out in public places, and yet some are facing resistance! This is from a culture where boobs are used to sell shows and movies and cars and everything else. You will see a breast on the BBC, but never on NBC. It’s silly.

This plays into why it is silly to over-react when your child sees you naked, or wants to play naked, or sees non-sexual nudity on television. If Hilary Swank had jumped up and acted mortified, it would have added negative currency to an aspect of the female form. It’s much better to she trust, and make it clear that it’s no big deal.

By the time most teenagers are ready to take their genital out for a walk, they’ve seen countless violent acts on television and in movies, with parental consent. They’ve seen a lot of sex, too, but not around their parents. Most of us will not wield a .357 Magnum or fight vampires, but we will wield a wet vagina or erect cock.

It’s not vulgar to talk about sex with your children, it’s vulgar not to. It’s crass to pretend that a guy getting his head shot off is “ok” but a man holding his wife and moaning while coming inside her, that’s verboten.

Personally, I keep clothes on as much as possible, outside of the nudist camp. I’ve lost 250lbs over the last 10 years, and a lot of loose skin makes me quite the unappealing nude sighting.  But when I was at that camp, walking outside naked and being seen was liberating. All the things I tried to hide, like my small dick and empty scrotum and large breasts, were just out there.  No physical secrets. Everyone was nice, too. Should go back there.

Hilary Swank is right. It’s a young child and it’s no big deal. It contributes to a healthy view of sexuality. And she does have a nice rack, too. I know because the kid Twittered, “Dad’s gf has supa supa teeeeeeeeeeeeeets! Where’s my binky?”

The introductory piddle aside; it’s T.V season (well. Not really for us, but in America it is. So it still counts). And thanks to the wonder that is the internet* we can catch our favourite shows on a weekly basis without having to wait until Feburary next year for them to air in Australia. On average, we’re about 6-7 episodes into the newest seasons and I’ll give a quick run-down on what I’m liking, disliking as well as a few shows that I think will take off when they finally do air.

I’m going to start with House, mainly because it’s one of my favourite shows and I can get away with being an obnoxious fanboy because 99% of the internet will agree with me. I can honestly say that it felt like last season carried on forever. This is what frustrates me about watching House. Fox screws around with its scheduling relentlessly. “Oh well it’s 2 months to Christmas, let’s have a week off. Sounds good.” It makes it hard not only for channel 10 to syndicate it but for a viewer to follow it on a week-to-week basis.
But anyway, I digress. Back to the actual point of the blog; being what I think. I like the direction of the new season, the shows sixth and arguably most intense season starts where the last season left off. House being admitted into a rehab/psychiatric hospital in order to shake his Vicodin addiction. It’s a long episode (1 hour 47 minutes from memory) and I for one thought that most of this feature length episode would be dealing with his detox. But in actual fact the detox process took place within the opening credits. Which was a cool change-up. Because honestly, in the last 5 seasons we’ve seen him detox about 3 times already. Without giving too much away, the writers have gotten away from the sometimes cirticised formula that the show used to follow quite closely and as for the lengthy, season-long story arc they actually chose to focus on Chase (the Australian guy) which I’m okay with. The show sometimes struggled for depth in the support cast (something I’ll address in another show later) but over the period of the show I have to say that the supporting actors really have picked up their game and developed as quite a strong cast of actors and actresses’.

The bad: In what seems like a truely baffling idea, the writers chose to simply get rid of House’s new team (which came into place in Season 4). Why? Kutner (the Indian guy from Harold and Kumar) was killed off well last season but for some reason the other two were simply written out, briefly mentioned. 13 briefly reappears in two episodes but then goes to “travel the world”. And Taub simply “quit”, without even seeing him. This writing seems a bit sloppy and I kind of expected more. But then again I’m not overly familiar with the behind the scenes going-ons. So it’s now just back to the old, original team.

Aside from all that I have to say I haven’t been this excited for a season of House for a while. I hope that Fox doesn’t muck around with its breaks too much and they really beef out the characters properly and give the angle some decent time. Which I’m sure they will.

So what was originally planned to be a quick run-down of multiple shows turned into an analysis of a single show. Looks like I’ll have to break this up into a few blogs. What of it?
* I’m not saying people should download shows illegally. I’m saying it’s easier to get synopsis’ of shows now. In real time. Or something like that.

Please don’t have me killed Fox.

Além do segundo episódio de Dead Set, a noite de ontem marcou a estreia da sexta temporada da série House, em um episódio especial com duas horas de duração, entitulado Derrotado (ou Broken, na versão original). Se alguém anda mais por fora que cotovelo de caminhoneiro, a série acompanha o doutor Gregory House, especialista em diagnóstico, uma pessoa tão brilhante quanto infeliz, infelicidade que se traduz em certa falta de apreço pelas pessoas em geral. House é uma das séries atuais mais aclamadas por público e crítica. Se você não chegou ainda ao fim da quinta temporada, pare de ler aqui.

A sexta temporada começa com House no hospital no qual internou-se voluntariamente no fim da quinta temporada, com o intuito de  se livrar da dependência do remédio Vicodin. O prólogo mostra o médico passando pelo sofrido processo de desintoxicação, em uma sequência linda de imagens ao som de No Surprises, da banda Radiohead. Vencida esta etapa, o doutor se prepara para ir embora, mas é convencido pelo diretor do hospital (de forma pouco ortodoxa) a ficar e procurar a fonte de seus problemas.

Baseado nessa premissa, o resto do episódio mostra House convivendo com os demais pacientes do hospital psiquiátrico, com os médicos que tentam tratá-lo e tentando, como sempre, aplicar suas armações para tornar a vida das pessoas ao seu redor mais complicada. Derrotado é uma prova de que, por mais que a série tenha passado por percalços na quinta temporada, a equipe que escreve e produz é extremamente competente. A mudança de ambiente revigora muito o interesse, e a confiança é tanta que o elenco regular da séria não aparece, exceto por uma breve participação de James Wilson.

Falo em confiança porque mudando elenco e local dos eventos, a série tira do público virtualmente todos os referenciais, o que pode ser desastroso do ponto de vista da aceitação. Mas se o episódio funciona, deve-se em grande parte aos personagens introduzidos para essa estória em específico. Seria fácil se perder entre clichês de estórias de sanatórios, mas aqui médicos, enfermeiros e pacientes são interessantes e cumprem o papel de proporcionar a House (e aos fãs) uma jornada cujas consequências deverão ser sentidas pelo resto da temporada. Dificilmente poderia ter começado melhor.

Além de Hugh Laurie no papel principal, Derrotado conta com Franka Potente, Megan Dodds, Derek Richardson, Andre Braugher e participação especial de Robert Sean Leonard. A sexta temporada de House será exibida pelo Universal Channel às quintas-feiras, 23h.

One Fantasy

This is a space I created for recovering (or those trying) addicts to come to let out their feelings about addiction (this includes alcohol), discrimination within the medical community for being an addict, the stress on families living with the disease of addiction and their treatment of their family member addicts, as well as just a place to vent about the hell of addiction and what it does to one’s life,  a place to share stories of addiction, as well as for family and friends suffering as well from an addicted loved one.

And no, you cannot buy drugs online here;)

Hace aproximadamente un mes empezó la transmisión de la sexta temporada de una de las series estadounidenses más exitosas de los últimos años, “Dr. House”.  La que viene cargada de nuevos elementos y cambios dramáticos en sus personajes.
En la retina de muchos quedó la imagen del último capítulo de la temporada anterior de la serie, cuando el irónico médico ingresa a un psiquiátrico a causa de las alucinaciones que le produce su fiel compañero, el vicodín.

La sexta temporada viene marcada por un cambio profundo en la personalidad del protagonista, Gregory House, quien tras pasar un tiempo en el psiquiátrico debe enfrentarse nuevamente al mundo de la medicina, pero esta vez completamente “limpio”. Además debe decidir si puede o debe volver a ejercer como el cabecilla del departamento de diagnósticos del Hospital Princeton.

Un aspecto importante que se desarrollará a lo largo de la temporada es si el ególatra House logrará mantenerse alejado de las tentaciones por las que la mayoría de los adictos pasa.

En esta temporada se abordan aspectos nuevos en la vida de House, como el dejar de vivir solo para ser compañero de vivienda con su mejor amigo, el oncólogo James Wilson y el aprender a acercarse a las personas, todo esto con la ayuda de un terapeuta que lo guiará.

Durante esta temporada Chase y Cameron pasarán por diversas situaciones que los pondrán al límite, entre ellas está el decidir si deben salvarle la vida a un dictador que tiene planeado una masacre de inocentes. Lamentablemente, la carismática doctora Cameron dejará la serie durante el transcurso de la ciclo.

Gregory está condenado de alguna forma a ejercer la medicina, es su máximo vicio, incluso más que el vicodín, pues por el momento puede vivir sin el fármaco, pero su vida se convierte en nada si es que no puede ser aquel  médico cretino  que goza al burlarse de sus pacientes y demostrándoles a sus subalternos qué tan real es su mítica frase “everybody lies”.

La serie se empezará a transmitir en Chile durante noviembre a través del canal por cable Universal.

O penúltimo episódio da quinta temporada de House M.D, segue o episódio anterior, onde o Doutor estava tendo visões inusitadas de Amber, a ex do Wilson. Aqui não explica o porquê dele estar tendo visões, pode ser por causa do seu vicio por Vicodin, pode ser por uma série de coisas, e ele pode até estar pirando.

Preocupado com isso tudo de poder pirar, House tenta diversas coisas, e não obtém sussesso em nenhuma, levando-o a crer que só há uma maneira, ir para isolação. Enfim House desiste, não aguenta mais ver Amber e se confundir com seus casos e quase os matá-los (a menina desse caso perde toda a pele!).

Mas quando vai se demitir, dessa vez de verdade, acaba por fazer Cuddy o ajudá-lo. Ela vai para sua casa e o acompanha em um doloroso processo de desintoxicação. E sim, House consegue! Sofre pra caramba, mas consegue se desintoxicar e perder um pouco da dor de sua perna. Mas também percebe algo, ama Cuddy. E antes de irem para o hospital ele a escora na parede e, bem, daí pra frente vocês deduzem.

Observação interessante sobre o episódio, é perceber diversas coisas que se escondem na mente do médico rabugento que amamos. Quando ele discute com Amber mais ferrenhamente, Amber sempre nos mostra o lado que House esconde de todo mundo, inclusive do espectador. E nesse episódio a relação dos dois se agrava, proporcionando momentos geniais de loucura.

nota do episódio:

3.5/5

There are a number of side effects commonly experienced by those who take Vicodin. These include nausea and vomiting, a feeling of sedation or mental dullness, constipation and more. Another side effect that will touch anyone who takes Vicodin for more than a few weeks is Vicodin addiction. Attempt to stop taking the painkiller “cold turkey,” or without warning, and you will find yourself in the throes of a painful Vicodin detox, complete with Vicodin detox symptoms that are far worse than the side effects associated with Vicodin use and abuse.

What are Vicodin Detox Symptoms?

Typical Vicodin detox symptoms include sleeplessness, anxiety, muscle aches and pains, diarrhea, night sweats, sensitivity to temperature, depression, and more. Because these symptoms can alter your behavior and your daily routine, many find it difficult to maintain abstinence when they experience these symptoms. Some may find the experience so uncomfortable that they won’t try again. Others won’t get the chance. If you are addicted to Vicodin, then you need Vicodin rehab and a chance to break your Vicodin addiction before it’s too late.

Can I Avoid Vicodin Detox Symptoms?

No. There is no way to completely avoid the Vicodin withdrawal symptoms associated with Vicodin detox after addiction. Because you’re body will have to transition from physical dependence to physical freedom, there will be some Vicodin detox symptoms no matter what. However, with the help of a Vicodin detox center, you can lessen those symptoms significantly.

What are the Treatment Options for Vicodin Detox Symptoms?

There are a few different treatment options when it comes to Vicodin detox symptoms. Essentially, you make a choice: either treat your Vicodin addiction with substitution medications that decrease your experience of the Vicodin detox symptoms or you treat the symptoms individually as they appear. Your medical and therapeutic team at your Vicodin detox program will be able to help you determine which one is the best choice for you. If you or someone close to you is exhibiting the symptoms of Vicodin addiction, call us today at 888-371-5719. Our confidential helpline is staffed by people who know Vicodin addiction, and what it takes to break the cycle of drug dependence.

Source: http://www.vicodin-rehab-guide.com/vicodin-detox/detox-symptoms.php