I'd been using a lot of pills at the time. 2000mg of Vicodin, 1000mg of Soma, some Flexiril or Valium at night to fall asleep, and this morning I nearly overdosed on Tylenol Cold, having woken up feeling heavy and gross. My purpose in life was to get through the day.

I had been trying to get my kids back for almost two years. My ex-wife had stolen them and was now using them for her own evil, selfish purposes, namely to validate her existence and villify mine.

My job was in middle management. Daily crises in an illustration production studio. Just my cup of tea. The Vicodin/Soma combination was starting to reveal itself to me in lovely tenderness in my upper extremities. I had strength enough to snort the yellow stuff through my sinuses and spit it into my trash can. Things were looking up.

In one hour I had a meeting with my management staff and I was unprepared. There had to be a software utility somewhere on my machine that would facilitate an agenda or at least a list, but I wasn't interested in looking for it. My left lower back said hello with a bitchy little clench that enlisted a left cheek lower eye twitch as validator. I started tapping my leg quickly as a response. My palms felt dry and fun.

Pharmaceutical recreation is underrated by most of America. I wasn't hooked nor prepared to admit that I was hooked. It was fun, that's all. Of course, I'm being coy and edgy. The reason I was on the meds was because I had inoperable disc damage to L4 and L5, resulting in bulbous pods of muscle throughout my back, with varying degrees of tragic consequences.

I was only 34. Imagine 44. Aches and pains on a park bench at 74. I win. Fuck you guys.

Denise came into my office again. She had a nervous (to me) habit of touching my shoulder when she spoke to me. Never mind that I'm her vast superior, intellectually and professionally. It was just creepy. She was fat and done-up. She had her life in order, and my orders didn't fit it. In two weeks she had destroyed two projects beyond recognition, beyond the superhero denouement which I had set up for them. Every day it was a different question, or the same question worded differently. If I had just ingested my helpers, I'd smile and speak slowly, and she'd leave thinking I was an asshole but feeling in control of her work to the degree that her memory could bear. If I was nearing another dose, I'd throw a trainwreck monologue at her and leave her with full comprehension of her confusion. Either way, I had something to look forward to when she finally left my office.

This time she led with lead No. 3: "You're going to want to shoot me, I know." Qualifying one's stupidity with humor is a tool of the well-practiced idiot. I would say, "no, no, no," but only to stick to script. I was figuring out ways to tape a .45 under my desk and I couldn't be bothered with having to explain a violent ad-lib.

I had to go to her desk late last night to find a stack of manuscript, and she had very organized piles of work separated across her desktop, all of which needed to be in production a week ago. I think she's anal.

The reason I was going to want to shoot her was that she had forgotten the instruction I had given her for a few chapters of art corrections. I repeated myself to this overweight glamour girl camaro pilot with no pen and paper, just a staggering blank stare and arbitrary nods. If I shot her, would that improve her memory?


- posted by seanmh @ 9:15 AM