Dude! Where’s my Freaking Car?
Yesterday morning (Wednesday), when I woke up, it took me a few seconds to figure out what had happened the evening before (i.e. Tuesday) when I had gone out for chicken at the Côte-St.-Luc BBQ on Côte-St.-Luc road just west of Decarie and got so fucked up on the hash oil I had been ingesting during the afternoon prior, that I found myself only barely able to walk and certainly too incapacitated to drive myself home after dinner although the dinner itself went well, apparently so anyway.
As you know if you read my blog yesterday (Wednesday), I had over-dosed on hash oil, one of the medicinal marijuana products I investigated last week (see also JL #113) and which I had had at least four hits of, possibly even five, on Tuesday afternoon just prior to my date for dinner with a good friend. I kept on doing one tiny oil-soaked skin* after another without giving myself the time to see what effect(s) the stuff was having on me, not taking my own advice in other words. However I do remember thinking that I wanted to get to a certain point in my head, something like “the little click” but not that far gone and not truly grasping the fact that I wasn’t giving myself the time to recognize whether I was there or not because I kept on doing the stuff. The whole ritual of injecting a snake-like line of the tarry substance onto the skin* was even starting to get to me, and not in a bad way – aesthetically speaking that is; I can still see the oil serpentining its way out of the bottom of the syringe as I pressed fairly forcefully on the plunger at the top of it.
While I remember, it is important for me to say one thing at this point: I did not do any med pot of any kind yesterday, i.e. on Wednesday^, at all meaning NONE of the following: no brownies, no blondies, no cookies, no tinctures or oils or weed of any kind including in tea, no caps, and none of any of the products I may have inadvertently omitted from our little list here. All I did do yesterday in the prescription drug pain-killing department was my usual dose of Supeudol, forty (40) mg. a day, plus whatever effect my getting stale fentanyl patches were having.
^right up to this actual point which is Thursday, January 23/14 at 8:30 am
The friend with whom I had dined grasped my predicament before I did and asked me if she could drive me home. Upon our arrival I realized that I was still having trouble walking so my friend kindly supported me as I moved from her car towards my door and she also assisted me in negotiating our front steps. When we finally got through the door – she had had to unlock the door because I was too fucked up to do so – she got her hands on a small pile of those little Post-its on which she wrote the location of my car (as it turned out. I remember at first not being absolutely sure what she was writing) – “Côte-St.-Luc West X Earnsclifft”., exactly like that, and then, before I knew it, she was gone. With the Wind. Leaving me to my own devices. When I had asked her how I was supposed to get my car the next day, she answered that she would be leaving me to figure that one out for myself. Which I did. With some difficulty. The next day. As she had said that I would. The disinclined heroine.
I had indeed managed to read and make note of the signage where I had parked my car even if not of the exact location of the vehicle itself: no parking after 7:00 am at the risk of being towed!
After bidding my friend a good evening, closing my front door and turning on the space heater which we have in our living room, I sat down and thought about calling my insurance company to tell them my story, hopefully resulting in them picking up my car. I then thought of phoning for my Cadillac Roadside Assistance as well as for “Discount”, the company which is supplying me with this courtesy Kia Optima while our Caddy is being repaired, and rejected both of these choices, deciding instead to crash out, remembering to set my cell phone alarm for six o’clock in the morning and remembering, too, to shut off the space heater I had turned on upon entering the house. About how long ago that had been had become impossible to say by that point, actually.
I must have realized that everything was blurry and that interacting with anybody in the state I was in at that time – and doing something that I wasn’t used to doing would be pretty hard to say the least …so off to sleep it was. For even though I couldn’t have known what things would look like in the morning and even though I thought I knew that I wouldn’t feel like getting up at six, I must have subconsciously known and understood that anything would be better than what I felt I’d have to confront if it had to be done right then, at night, instead of in the early morning light.
I had a great sleep, slept right through until the alarm woke me up. After a few seconds, it all came back to me so I bounced right out of bed, got dressed, washed and called a cab, feeling pretty good given the fact that I didn’t know exactly where my car was parked. The driver was a nice guy, very helpful and kind and the first thing he said upon hearing my story was “Don’t worry, we’ll find your car.” He even agreed to start my car – which we found in a flash – for me while I sat in his nice warm cab, waiting for my rental to warm up. Then back home and to bed for a rest. So it was much less of a problem dealing with the car question in the morning, after a few hours sleep, than it had been in the evening when I had been too stoned to really think straight.
As my friend Bob used to say, “there’s a true druggie story if ever I heard one.”
Peace out with a special shout out to my great and good friend Hilton. Hi Hilton, man.